George Weasley and the Struggles of Being Emotionally Stunted
by Kay Gryffin
Summary: Otherwise known as 'Hermione Granger and the Struggles of Dealing With the Emotionally Stunted'. In which George mucks up a bit, Hermione's being jerked around, Harry is tired as hell from doing the chores Mrs. Weasley's refusing to do and Bill & Charlie are conniving, interfering older brothers in the best way. Deals with what happens to George when Fred's not there. M for later.
1. George's New Mischief

**First fic in a year and it has nothing to do with anything I've already started. What is life?**

 **Enjoy greatly, R &R if you so wish. I have no ownership of Miss Rowling's fine work; I simply claim for myself a little pygmy puff of my very own, if she would so please as to allow such an expense. **

**Please be aware: I wrote this for my enjoyment. There are things I bring up in here that have no follow-up, because I forgot about them when it came to the final pages, to be honest, but they had no importance, anyways. Such is life.**

* * *

George Weasley was finally getting the hang of things.

It'd been months since he'd dared to experiment with the creation of assorted potions and magical paraphernalia since Fred's passing, and after an assortment of catastrophic failures with the new material, George was finally getting back in touch with his inner prankster self. Without his partner in crime, admittedly, things were difficult—the ideas may have come from them both, but they were always inspired by one another—but not impossible, it was beginning to seem. George grinned to himself, red hair tousled in a messy bed of thick turmeric-shaded locks as he beheld one of his newer creations, which had been dead simple in the theoretical sense but actually quite difficult in application, especially since it kept making him into a forty-year-old pregnant muggle.

George grabbed up his wand, stuffing it into the pocket of his expensive and tacky tailored suit, grabbing up Fred's wand as well, stuffing it into the opposing pocket. The only habit he hadn't been able to get over as so far was keeping Fred's wand in the pocket of his wand hand; the twins regularly picked up each other's wands thinking it was their own, the wands responded the same anyways. He snatched the newly-created product with the glee that of a child, momentarily forgetting that he'd only just created said product, leaving it privy to volatile reaction to abuse, but the product remained compliant, choosing not to blow up in his face. Good thing, too—it'd be hard to show off if it'd blown up, after all.

George had been working in the bowels of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes for the past three weeks on said product, endlessly trying to make _this_ invention work for him. He'd experienced so many in the way of failures—a potion that allowed one to grow fully functioning breasts (which Ron had freaked out upon seeing after George had snuck a drop or two into his breakfast), a charm that allowed one to read minds (which Ginny had quite enjoyed, actually, but Harry had not appreciated as it had intruded on his privacies, to which Hermione concurred), glasses that allowed one to truly see through any and all articles of clothing (which had failed only because it saw simply _much_ too far and George now knew far too much of Percy's anatomy). The list was longer still, but George was never one to concentrate on his failures, which was why school had never been quite the twin's sort of scene as they failed all their subjects.

George Apparated from his Diagon Alley flat to the Burrow, appearing with a sharp pop in the middle of Molly Weasley's breakfast, shocking his mother into a shriek and forcing her to drop the pot of oatmeal atop Harry's unsuspecting head. Harry, to his credit, took it like a man; didn't even scream, but simply looked miserably over at George, or as well as he could with the warm oats obstructing his already shoddy vision. Ginny giggled from next to him, running her finger through the sweetened warm oats that now resided on Harry's face, sucking it into her mouth with a loud _pop_ quite like the one George had made when he'd caused the situation in the first place.

"'S good, Mum," Ginny complimented before even looking at her humorous older brother, "So what've you got today?"

Although George now lived on his own in the flat he and Fred had bought together when they'd started their business, George was quite often appearing around his childhood home, especially nowadays; and usually came with a new creation in hand for the purposes of testing, because apparently in his eyes (according to his mother, anyways) his family had always been the best guinea pigs for his pranks, especially Ron and Percy due to their almost constant adverse reactions to whatever it was that had been made. Ginny usually loved whatever George made, and found a certain degree of pride that she got to help make the creations better in whatever capacity she could.

To an extent, the Weasley family grew to not only accept that George would be popping in and out of the Burrow whenever he so pleased with his creations, but grew to expect the visit, though it always freaked Molly out whenever her son would appear at randomized time, creating reliably hilarious situations for the Weasley clan to watch, meaning, quite simply, that this was not the first time Harry had found himself covered with some sort of food—he was just happy, this time, that it was not a pot of boiling hot soup, but rather oatmeal that had been sitting on the stove for a decent amount of time.

Harry took off his glasses, resigning himself to his fate as he sighed unhappily. It took him a while to get his hair under control and on his best of mornings, he still couldn't control it. Today his hair had been nothing but cooperative, and for what now?

"Good morning, George," Harry said down to his lap as the oatmeal dripped down the back of his neck, Ginny giggling endlessly next to him.

Molly, for her part, had taken the time to calm down considerably. She'd gotten a better handle on her temper towards George in the months since the war, knowing that George's random visits were his way of coping. She was worried about her boys, every single one of them, and she especially fretted about George's disposition these days. He was getting a better handle on his own temper, and was growing less and less likely to snap at people with each passing day. It was still hard to make George smile now, much more so to make him laugh, and if his way of getting himself to smile was to pop in randomly and spill some oats all over Harry, then so be it.

"George, do make yourself at home, dear," Molly said instead of flipping out on her son, "Harry, my apologies, dear."

"'S okay, Mrs. Weasley," Harry muttered, licking the oatmeal off his upper lip, "Tastes good."

"We should cover you in oatmeal more often," Ginny teased with a lecherous smile, making George guffaw as she ran a finger through the warm breakfast cereal again, "It's a good look on you. So sexy."

"That's quite enough, Ginny," Molly said with a huff, not needing to hear her daughter talking in such a way. Ginny giggled again, giving Harry a light lick. "Harry, we should get you cleaned up."

"Maybe that's a good idea," he mumbled, getting up from his chair unsteadily, "But before I go, does anyone want any oatmeal?"

"I'm good, mate," George said with a snigger, eyes twinkling in the wake of the mischief he'd caused. Ginny opened her mouth to speak, but the sharp look her mother sent her had her immediately quieted. Luckily, she didn't have to say anything: Ron came down at that moment, his eyes half-logged due to sleepiness before whipping wide open as he took in Harry's current look, immediately falling into raucous guffaws at his friend's misfortune. It happened frequently, Harry getting doused with food items, but it was the sheer range of the food that made Ron laugh, especially since it never happened to him (at least, not anymore). It was a nice change of pace, one that Ron appreciated after years of being at the brunt of the twins' jokes.

He clapped Harry on the shoulder before swiping a finger quickly through the warm substance. "Harry, I've told you, mate, smearing food on your skin is not eating. It's meant to be ingested, not spread on top like some sort of topical cream. It's food, not ointment."

George and Ginny began a fresh round of childish giggling, while Harry's face burned with embarrassment, although it went unseen due to the soggy oats still dripping down from his hair.

* * *

After all was settled down, they ate the now-cold breakfast, a towel draped across the back of Harry Potter's neck to absorb the water dripping from his hair, which was already beginning to settle into a mess, much to his dismay. Still, Harry did not complain about his misfortune, finding it to be a waste of his own time when he knew that George would not apologize until much later in the day, as it always was. George tuck into the cold scrambled eggs and toast with vigor, as if he hadn't caused mischief that morning, whilst Molly directed careful questions at him, making sure not to use any triggers in his words—meaning, she did her very best to not say Fred's name.

Fred had become a sort of taboo to say, around George at least. Each time it was said he took it as a sort of personal offense, as if someone was giving preference to which twin had been left alive. To say George had survivor's guilt put it lightly—for a long time, George had been ashamed that he'd been left alive. It had taken him months to get to the point to accept that _he_ still lived, five months to be exact, and it would probably take longer for him to grow to accept that Fred _wasn't_. He still didn't react very well to the topic, so his family always made sure not to bring it up in whatever capacity. They only spoke of Fred when George was not around to hear—it was if they were hiding from George that they, too, missed his twin brother.

None of them liked especially walking on eggshells around George, but they knew the necessity. Just the wrong thing would result in catastrophe, nowadays around George. He was sensitive, overly so, and predisposed to eruption. The only one who didn't even try to walk around George's feelings was none other than Hermione Granger—but of course, who else? Hermione, from the get-go, had no interests in protecting George's feelings on the topic of the late twin brother for the sheer reason that everyone had lost something, not just George. People lost friends, family, neighbors, local butchers, down-the-alley barsmen—everyone had lost someone because of the Battle of Hogwarts. Lavender Brown's parents were without a daughter. Colin Creevey's parents, without a son. Teddy Lupin, the poor sweet boy, was without his own parents, basically a newborn still when they had been stolen from him.

And Hermione had lost people, herself. And she'd sat through every funeral, went to every viewing, prayed for every soul in the church of a god she no longer believed in. Hermione did all this and continued on with her life, because that was what she needed to believe that the dead would want of the living—to continue on with the lives they'd sacrificed their own for.

And so, no, Hermione did not pity George like the other members of the greater clan did. It was a primary reason why Hermione tried to stay away from the Burrow for a primary portion of the time now—due to her inability to pity George, she oftentimes found herself unconsciously stepping all over George's feelings, like some sort of cruel bully, and given that George often showed up unannounced and without prior warning, Hermione had deemed it unsafe for her own sakes, having grown tired of Ginny trying to convince her to pay George kindnesses instead of criticisms.

George knew not of this, however; Molly having figured that it'd be just another thing that would set the poor soul off. It wasn't that Molly didn't agree with Hermione's points, she actually did. She was right; everyone had lost someone, and it hadn't been just George who'd lost Fred, it was every single member of the family. From Percy to Arthur, they'd all lost their little Freddy. They would all have to live with the fact that they'd lost someone so dear to them—and, despite all his mischief, Fred had been very, very important to them all.

Molly, so enraptured in her thoughts about the current predicament the Weasley clan found themselves in, had drifted off of the conversation, eyes locked on the clock behind George's head as she fell into the depths of her mind. George shifted about, uncomfortable with the Weasley matriarch's staring as he tried to focus instead on the conversation which Ginny and Ron had been oh-so-kind enough to pick up in her stead, though it was quite difficult to ignore, as one could easily imagine—who can ignore their mother when she's apparently staring through your very head, as if your existence is but a nominal thing?

The entirety of the family was unaware of George's mentality, thinking he was so involved in his own self-pity that he was somehow now rendered ignorant to those around him, which was simply not the case. George was utterly and completely aware of his family's current turmoil, how they all suffered through their losses. He remembered that for a solid week after the battle, Ron would refuse to leave his closet because he could swear he saw Lavender Brown sitting upon his bed, calling for her Ronnikins.

He remembered that Bill would sometimes have to grab onto something, usually Fleur, and hold on very, very tightly as he remembered the utter shame of not being able to save the lives of Tonks or Remus, whom he had fighting alongside.

He remembered that Harry would (and still) woke up screaming, trapped in a seemingly never-ending nightmare as he was left to remember all the deaths that had occurred on that day.

He knew that Percy, Perfect Prefect Percy, was actually afraid to come to the Burrow for shame of being unable to protect his own little brother, and having to see the person who caused him more guilt than anything: George himself, as George, as we all know, looked exactly like Fred in every single way.

And he knew that Hermione, little nerdy Granger, suffered with having lost Fred without ever being able to tell him the truth: that she'd loved him.

George knew Hermione's secret, a secret he'd kept even from Fred himself—because there were just some things that Fred needed to find out from another besides himself. In this world, George figured, there were two people placed on the earth who were simply meant to be together, and Fred; he'd gotten lucky—he'd found that person. To the common observer, it appeared that Fred and Hermione were mismatched to boot—Granger loved learning and all things academia, but Fred preferred pranking and misconduct. Granger was short, almost as short as Harry, whilst Fred was nearly the same height as Bill, who was the very definition of 'bloody tall'. Granger was overly sensitive, prone to tears and anger, whilst Fred was calmer, more likely to go with the flow and laugh at the negative than anything.

They were polar opposites, and like all polar opposites, they attracted to each other. Another studious type of soul would've only bored the daylights out of Mione, whilst another jocular prankster would've quickly only grown to irritate Fred. Hermione needed Fred in order to remember that she needed to enjoy the moments and laugh, and Fred needed Hermione in order to recall that he was more than simply pranks. They worked together brilliant, in George's humble opinion. They needed each other.

And now Fred was gone.

He could understand why Hermione had been snappish the last time he'd seen her—and she was right; him acting miserly wasn't going to just bring Fred back, but he couldn't help it. It was overstated to the extreme by others, but it was true; Fred was truly George's other half. He liked to imagine that it would've been quite the same situation if it'd been reversed; if he had died and Fred had lived (well, not truly _liked_ to, but simply did with quite frequency). Hermione might've been Fred's romantic soulmate, but in every other way, he was George's soulmate as well. And he'd let it overtake him. Let it consume him. He'd let himself forget that others had lost someone they loved, too—and Hermione had, too. She'd been through so much for the sake of all the world, both muggle and magical alike, and despite her sacrifice, things had only been taken from her.

George swallowed down more cold eggs, moving a hand to his pocket, touching Fred's wand, wishing so damned hard, for the umpteenth time, that Fred had been allowed his life.

"George! Are you even listening?"

George snapped to attention, blinking owlishly at his younger sister, who shot him a stern look she must've picked up from their mother, who had long since returned from her own thoughts and now fixed George with a look of her own. Ron and Harry were smartly keeping their heads down, wishing to keep themselves from gaining the same sort of disapproval, whispering to each other about Quidditch in order to play ignorant to the current mood.

"Hmm?" George asked, knowing better than to pretend he'd been listening.

Ginny huffed at him, whilst Molly shook her head. "I _said_ ," Ginny began, clearly enunciating as if George had suddenly developed a sort of mental deficiency, gaining a small snigger from Ronald, which had earned _him_ a sharp look from Molly, " _So what have you come with today for testing, George?_ "

George blinked again, this time quite normally in comparison to before, before he forced a smile that the family members around him could, sadly, see easily through, though not a one of them said a word of it. He was excited, truly, but he was also prepared for the inevitability of failure, as he had been doing with such a frequency as of late. Without Fred, it seemed, inspiration was just so hard to come by, and he felt as if it would be some sort of shame to their good name as the founding fathers of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes if he couldn't even figure out a new product without him. With a trembling hand, he went into his pocket, pulling out the new product he'd been working so hard on.

Ginny stared at the object in his hand, squinting and wrinkling her nose.

Molly furrowed her brow, as if quite confused by the thing within his palm.

Ron gaped at it, his mouth hanging open, showing quite a lot of unchewed food.

And Harry, the Chosen One, was the only one who dared to voice the question so obviously on all of their minds:

"Um, George," he said tentatively, "Just what _is_ that?"

George sputtered, as if flabbergasted by the fact that no one could figure out what he'd been trying to make. To him, it was blatant as anything, but truth be told, not even a mischievous Marauder would've been able to figure out quite what was held in the center of the Weasley's hand. It wasn't massive in size, nor was it small; it looked like a chunk of firm pink foam, if one could have such a thing, and it seemed to sparkle green somehow in the daylight that streamed through their window. To Harry, he was sure that it was some potions gone horribly, horribly wrong, and to a certain degree he was correct—George had, in fact, used quite a lot of potions when he'd created the little ugly monstrosity; his imaginative block had left him quite desperate and willing to use whatever to make that thing before him.

"What do you mean, what is it?" George asked, brow furrowed deeply.

"The question itself is pretty clear, mate," Ron mumbled, aware enough now to begin chewing once more; Ginny nodding in agreement, a rarely-seen thing if there ever was one. Molly simply kept a worried glance on George, as if he'd finally gone mad.

"Well, try it!" George said indignantly, sticking his hand out and close to shoving the thing in Harry's face. "Try a bite?"

"You want him to _eat_ it?" Ginny squawked. Harry eyed it warily.

"It smells like sweaty socks up close, George. You've been carrying that in your pocket?" Harry said softly.

"Have you gone mad?" Molly cried.

"I mean, Mum, I've always been a bit mad," George said with a flippant shrug, "Now don't be a chicken, Harry! I'm sure it tastes just fine. I've been working on the odor."

"Your words don't make me confident."

"I'll say," Ron muttered.

George sneered at Ron. "Would you like to give it a try, Ronny boy?"

Ron blanched. "I'm fine…" his baby brother muttered, turning his attention back to the food that wasn't quite settling well anymore—which George took pride in. It took quite a lot to ruin Ron's formidable appetite.

Harry was beginning to turn slightly green at the edges. "George, it smells _utterly_ bad," he said tightly, "It's almost like it's changing scent."

George winced. "Ah, yes. Well, it does that. Haven't quite figured it out yet. Now take a bite."

Molly glared at George. "Harry James Potter," she said sharply, having perfected chastising all the children, even Harry, "If you take a bite of that, chosen one or not, you will _rue_ your decision!"

Ginny giggled, the only one who wasn't taking this so seriously. "Harry, just take a bite. I'm sure you'll be fine. George wouldn't _intentionally_ kill you."

Ron moved to speak up again, but apparently thought the better of it when George shot him a glance.

"Besides," Ginny continued with a glint in her eye, "It'll just mean _George's_ the chicken, not you."

George started, sitting upright now as he stared, stunned, at his baby sister. "What's that?" he asked, withdrawing the product from under Potter's nose, much to his relief.

Ginny giggled, smirking at her big brother as she leaned her chin on her hand, knowing she had the upper hand. Even Mrs. Weasley now kept her mouth shut, stunned by the display. Even Ginny, it seemed, had her limitations to the willingness to be a test subject for George's magical products—and she was more than happy to see her brother get his just desserts. The Weasley matriarch hadn't to do a thing, either, much to her relief, so she let go, instead asking her youngest boy if he would like a new plate of food due to his pale complexion, which he nodded to blankly as he took in the happenings before him.

"George," Ginny began with a drawl, "Hermione told me a story once about a muggle inventor, called Bruce Banner." Harry furrowed a brow at her, while George stared blankly, not knowing anyone named Bruce Banner—but then again, he was not a muggle, and Ginny was using that to her advantage. "Bruce Banner used test subjects to a certain degree, but you know what he ultimately tested on?" Ginny took a pause, mainly for dramatic effect. "He tested on _himself_ , George. He tested on himself, and he didn't even _know_ the projected outcome."

Harry's frown deepened. "But, Gin—" he began before Ginny placed her hand over his mouth.

"Now, George, answer me this. If some muggle named Bruce can test his own product on himself, without any sense of what to expect, then why can't you test your perfectly harmless and, I assume, _final_ product on yourself?"

George stared at his sister, beyond confused but, mostly, embarrassed. He didn't know much about muggles, so he had no way to know if Ginny was lying or telling the truth, but in the end, he figured, it didn't quite matter. What did was that he basically just got told off by his seventeen-year-old sister and now he felt embarrassed and, for the most part, belittled. She had just belittled his title as an inventor; something that he took none too lightly.

Not skipping a beat, George took a honking bite out of his creation, relieved that it at least _tasted_ like the bubblegum he'd wanted it to, despite it not smelling that way. George found it easy to gulp it down, though Harry was apparently incredulous to the fact, judging by the disgust that easily showed in his expression before it melted back into nervous concern. He began twiddling his thumbs, looking from George, to Ron, to Ginny, and back to George—Mrs. Weasley had whisked off to the kitchen to make more food for Ron.

"George," Harry said slowly, "What Gin has neglected to mention is that Bruce Banner wasn't _really_ an inventor, and the thing he tested on himself ended up turning him into a big, green monster ruled by rage and violence."

Ginny, apparently, was not aware of this, judging by her comically wide eyes as she sucked in a breath, whilst George nearly stopped breathing. Ron, for his part, began to cackle, amused.

"Oops," said Ginny dumbly.

* * *

Hermione Granger found herself in the midst of a muggle mystery novel when she received the patronus.

She'd decided to take a day trip to muggle London, a place she'd visited all of her childhood ignorant to the magical underbelly that had lay in wait for her. A small part of her longed for those days, the innocent days of being unaware of the world of magic and danger that had been awaiting for her, though she knew that the life she would have otherwise lead would've been empty, meaningless; droll and uninteresting for the higher aspirations that Hermione held for her life.

Still, however, Hermione gave in once every so often and found herself amongst the muggles, her wand tucked deep into the recesses of her impossibly infinite pocket, finding herself caught up in the bright lights and swift pace that the muggles around her currently undertook. A small part of her wished to catch the tube to her old childhood home, where she'd spent many an afternoon holed up in her bedroom, listening to the sounds of the busy whilst she read.

Hermione found herself in depths of a Sherlock Holmes tale, curled up in the corner of one of her favorite little coffee shops, a hot cup of tea right beside her, her wild locks of curly, frizzy hair pulled up high and tight into a messy bun that was really more of a large tangle of hair that had some women wincing in pity to see, not a touch of makeup or cosmetics upon her already beautiful face. Hermione got over the phase in which she wished to change everything about herself, deciding once and for all that she was just fine the way she was. She was finally, after an entire lifetime of trying, satisfied with herself the way she was, unruly hair and all.

She tended to dress more for comfort than for style, which even in the wizard world earned her weird looks when people beheld her loose, oversized woolen sweater, baggy t-shirt and grey heather sweatpants, but she learned to ignore it. It didn't make a difference, anyways, not one lick of it. If people couldn't see past the exterior, then, in Hermione's mind, they probably weren't worth her time, anyways. Harry and Ron, the entire Weasley clan at that, had taught her that lesson.

Just the thought of Ron made her wince, remembering the mistake of a snog she'd given Ron at the Battle of Hogwarts, the snog that she desperately wanted to pretend never happened. Ron had initiated the kiss, and she was so elated that she'd done nothing to stop it, finally figuring that she had _Ron._ Of course, this wasn't the case—the snog wasn't so much as passionate and romantic more than panicked and slobbery, like she was kissing a cousin or, worse, her dad. She'd been wrong about something, quite the rarity actually: she was not in love with Ronald Bilius Weasley.

It was Fred who'd had her.

She had lost her virginity to Fred in a mistaken blur in fourth year, the night of the Yule Ball, which was known as the Night of Many Mistakes by most Hogwarts students. On a rush of elation, endorphins and rock 'n' roll, many students found themselves doing things with people they'd never expect to, Hermione no exception. She'd thought she would've done with Krum, of all people, but never Fred, who had been at the ball with Angelina Johnson. Fred had ditched his date when he'd found Hermione crying at the foot of the stairs in the Great Hall, sending Angelina off with George, and stayed with Hermione despite the fact that she refused to tell him what was wrong for the longest time. The ball ended at midnight, but she did not speak until nearly one-thirty.

When she finally got her distress off of her chest, Filch had come about and yelled at the pair of them for being in the way, forcing them to retreat to the Gryffindor common room, where Fred had continued to talk to her in order to calm her down, refusing to let her go to bed in anything less than high spirits, which was quite in character for the Weasley twin. Fred and George were both like that; despite their usually jocular nature they were both quite protective, especially over Hermione, who, despite being a killjoy sometimes, they both quite liked. Fred cared about her, deeply, and so he refused to sleep himself until Hermione was happy.

It had been two-forty, whereabouts, when Fred had kissed her. Neville Longbottom had come in, from where they weren't sure because, again, the _ball had ended at midnight_ , asking them in a dopey sort of voice if they had a good night, but obliviously, he hadn't stuck about for the answer, instead moving through the common room with a certain kind of swagger towards the dormitory he shared with Dean, Harry, Ron and Seamus; a swagger which Fred had no hesitations in making fun of him for once Neville was out of earshot. Hermione had been aghast, she remembered, though slightly amused truth be told; smacking Fred lightly on the arm as punishment. Fred had only continued his relentless teasing behind Neville's back, which, as Hermione had only realized in the years to come, he'd done on purpose to gain more contact with Hermione. They had begun to wrestle, Fred grabbing at Hermione's hands to stop her from slapping him, which had drawn them close, so close, close enough that Hermione found herself nearly in his lap, their faces barely centimeters apart.

Fred had kissed her then, catching her by surprise; a small, closed-mouth pursing of lips pressing gently against her own in front of the roaring fire of the Gryffindor common room, snatching Hermione's very first kiss. Hermione had been shocked into silence, unable to respond until Fred had managed to snake his tongue into her mouth, forcing her into reaction.

Things had progressed steeply from there. The next morning, thankfully, Lavender and Parvati hadn't returned to the dorm yet, so they were spared of Fred's pale, bare bottom glistening in the early morning light that streamed through the window of her dormitory, his head nestled in the crook of Hermione's neck as he spooned her from behind, his ass towards the door, the blankets of the bed far across the room, along with the ripped remains of Hermione's once elegant, now ruined ball gown and Fred's equally demolished, formerly handsome tuxedo.

It was a mistake they'd promised not to make ever again.

It was a mistake they'd made thrice more: once when Umbridge had begun her punishments [torture] on the twins for their mischief, once again when Ron and Lavender became an item (which meant, yes, Fred had to _sneak_ into the castle; it was Hermione's wish) and once more at the Shell Cottage before she left again with Harry and Ron to Bellatrix Lestrange's vault at Gringotts. Three of those times (if we include the first time, which we are) were actually done in Lavender's bed, but only once was of a vindictive means, which she admittedly regretted _now_ , but _then_ , she figured that it was just giving Lavender her just desserts.

She wasn't quite sure, now, how she couldn't figure out then that she felt beyond a love of siblings for Fred; couldn't figure it out before he'd been taken from her, but now, it was more than easy to see. With Fred, she was more able to be herself, more easily than even with Harry or Ron, because, and bless Harry and Ron, on a certain level Fred was just more capable at keeping up with her mind. Fred liked learning, too, though his learning was always more for pranks than for academic reasons, and he was often in the library, reading in a corner with George right beside him propping each other up. Hermione had taken to joining them from time to time, usually leaning against Fred's chest or with her head in his lap.

Oh, such simpler days were they! Days, seemingly endless, spent simply reading in the shockingly cozy silence of the library, next to two of the most unexpected partners… oh, how she wished she were there now, the adventures of Mr. Holmes in hand while Fred and George researched charms.

Speaking of the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle adventures, they no longer seemed to have her attentions. Hermione sighed, disappointed, putting the well-worn copy of _The Sign of Four_ down on the small table besides her and instead choosing to nurse her warm mug of herbal tea between her two hands, taking a large drink from the contents, a happy smile growing on her lips despite the sadness that tugged at her heart. She looked out towards the hustle-and-bustle of London, watching the people rush about needlessly to little jobs that Hermione herself would never have to hold, endless little nine-to-five's that left them tired and stressed and ignorant to the true nature of the very world that was right at the edges of this bubble the muggles had developed.

Somewhere in this bustle were her own parents, whom, after tracking them to Australia and returning to them their memories, returned to their average day routine, although their relationship with their daughter was now stressed as they had realized just how much Hermione had shielded them from all these years. Hermione still came around for lunch with her parents, sometimes, but mostly, she stayed in the wizarding world, coming to the muggle world only rarely now. She wanted to give her parents time—time to come to terms with the person their baby girl had grown up to become, time to understand the things she'd been forced to do in order to keep the people she loved safe—because it was never like she'd wanted to make her own parents actually _forget_ her, to erase herself from their lives like a bad stain on an otherwise spotless shirt.

Hermione sighed unhappily, curling in a little tighter, taking another gulp of the warm tea. She wanted to go home—not to her flat, rather, to the Burrow; which had become a safe haven for her over the past seven years, the Weasley family having adopted her as their very own. She wanted to go home to Harry and Ginny's quiet giggling and stupid, lovesick smiles, to Molly's fantastic cooking and Arthur's doleful muggle-induced oblivion, to Ron's aggressive eating habits and annoying snoring.

But, mostly, she wanted to go home to, surprisingly, _George_.

Now, before it can be mistaken, let it be pointed out that Hermione hadn't fallen in love with George as some sort of substitute for Fred. Hermione wasn't that kind of person; she wasn't so flippant. Despite how scarily similar the two were, Hermione had always identified Fred and George as two separate entities, though more often than not they came together; a set. Fred was _Fred_ —arrogant to a near fault, yet sweet, caring; fiercely loving and protective down to his very marrow. And George was George—also arrogant, yes, and also as jocular, and just as fierce with his affections, but with his own set of idiosyncrasies that distinguished him.

George had this way of wringing his hands when he was nervous, as if they were beginning to ache and scream at him, which she found out later was actually the case, as George admitted; a byproduct of years of Quidditch. He also liked to nibble at the inside of his cheek, mostly out of boredom than nervousness, as if he always needed some way to captivate his mouth when his words were not being thrown out of it. He liked salmon more than cod, which was the reverse of Fred, something that had led to quite a bit of arguments, as Hermione was later privy to. He also had a problem with recognition sometimes; it took him just a bit longer to learn peoples' names than Fred had, and also made it harder for him to retain information, which was a primary reason that school had never quite held his interests, whereas with Fred it had more to do with a certain degree of laziness and rebellion; but for a few select subjects, like potions, George was able to suck in the knowledge like a sponge (and if it hadn't been for his lack of attendance, he would've surely been at the top of Snape's class). When he focused on something, more often than not one of his many inventions, he would tie his formerly long hair back and off of his face, his brow furrowing just the slightest as he lost himself in tinkering and creation.

There were many other things that made George so different from Fred, so many things that even the rest of his family hadn't come to realize, with the exception of Charlie, who Hermione had come to learn was possibly one of the most perceptive people she'd ever met, but Hermione found herself without a moment to think about it when she heard the coffee shop erupt into an intrigued buzz. Head lifting up in confusion, she found herself confronted with Ginny's patronus right outside her window, which was causing quite the scene due to its very form: a horse.

A horse configured of pure light and magic itself.

Outside of a coffee house.

Staring at Hermione, as if saying, _Well, you're in quite the inconvenient place._

Hermione cursed her luck, drawing her wand and quickly casting the Obliviate charm amongst the small crowd and shoving the novel into her pocket, racing out of the shop without so much as paying for the tea which, when she recalled this act much later, would lead her to send the shop nearly double the charge, with a handsome tip.


	2. Hermione's Fury

**Thanks for all the feedback! On we go!**

* * *

"Why isn't she here yet?!" Ginny shrieked worriedly, pulling at her hair by the root, making Harry wince at the painfully high volume she used. "I sent the patronus nearly an _hour_ ago now!"

"Maybe she didn't get it," Ron suggested half-heartedly, which earned him a venomous glare from the youngest of the Weasley clan, "Maybe it got lost."

"Oh, yes, Ronald, that surely must be it," Ginny responded sarcastically.

Harry looked at her. "C'mon, Gin, you know he was joking. Calm down, please."

"You're scaring us," Ron added unhelpfully.

Ginny shot a withering glare at the both of them before stomping out of the dining room, her hands fisted tight at her side much like as a petulant child than a girl of her age and experience, thankfully sparing the either of them from her infamous hex. Both boys sighed, having grown quite tense due to Ginny's growing impatience and worry with the current situation and, yes, relieved that Ginny had left the room. They had both been too afraid of offending her.

Ron made eye contact with his best friend, his eyes wide as he let out a sigh.

"You're basically marrying my _mum_ ," he told Harry.

Harry chuckled softly. "Gin can't cook, though."

Ron chortled. "Yeah, that's true, too." He cast another worried glance towards the doorway, seeing Ginny cast yet another patronus to go fetch Hermione. He sighed again, the humor being sucked out of him once more. Molly was upstairs with George, the door locked until Hermione arrived, making Ron feel powerless, unable to help his big brother. "What a mess, eh?"

The question had been rhetorical, but Harry answered nonetheless. "I'd rather be dealing with Death Eaters." Harry frowned. "Things are far too complicated."

"Yeah, because you're stupid when it comes to feelings," Ron reminded him.

"Also true. But I think fighting the Death Eaters was, still, easier," Harry said defensively, putting his chin down on the old wood of the dining room table (and not even pursuing the frankly pointless venture of calling Ron out upon his hypocrisy; it was just too cheap of a shot, in Harry's opinion anyway). The remains of breakfast, the plates of cold food and the assortment of pots and pans, were still on the table, waiting to be charmed into washing, but Harry lacked the energy or desire to do so, though on a usual day he would in a heartbeat if it meant he could alleviate Molly of some of the work. However, today he just couldn't: he was too worried about George.

A small part of him wished that he'd just done what George had asked and bit into the suspicious foam-like mound that now sat undisturbed on the floor where George had dropped it, ignorant to the misery it was causing, but he had a feeling that the result would be quite the same as the current outcome, which left him with a feeling of nagging guilt without any sort of foundation for such. Harry sighed unhappily, turning pointedly away from the disgusting product that left George in such a dismal state, which Ron more than easily noticed. Skilled in his ability to percept Harry's feelings, he sighed, turning his gaze towards his bespectacled friend.

"Not your fault, mate," Ron said for what had to be the twelfth time. Or maybe it was the thirteenth? It was beginning to blur together.

"I know," mumbled Harry for the umpteenth time with an angry little huff.

Ron sighed again. "Harry, George's done much worse to himself before," he reminded him, "Remember that time that George's spell rebounded back to him and he set his eyelashes on fire? He went to St. Mungo's because of that one. Even _Percy_ teased him for it. _Percy_!"

Harry snorted. "I remember," he mumbled softly, "but that doesn't stop me from worrying about him. This time Fred's not gonna stumble out of the bathroom after plucking out all his eyelashes in solidarity."

Ron was forced to concur, but thankfully, the distinctly sharp _snap_ of Hermione's Apparition stopped him from voicing such a truth, because probably it wouldn't have helped at all. Harry and Ron rushed to their feet, the latter nearly dislocating his ankle as the boys sprinted out to meet Hermione, who was quite angry they came to realize, seeing as she was chastising Ginny.

"—are you aware that the _Ministry_ is going to be sending me angry letters for the next _week_? They'll possibly issue me a court date, seeing as I'm still not out of school quite yet—and no, before you even _think_ to ask, I will _not_ be taking the full blame for this _predicament_ you've landed me in. Are you aware of all the memory charms I had to cast today because of _your_ patronus, Ginevra Weasley?!" Hermione screeched at the younger girl, waving her arms about like a mad woman, or like a mother, spitting and fuming flames of outrage at Ginny's well-intentioned, yet senseless actions. Ginny had her arms crossed petulantly across her chest, as if waiting for Hermione to finish her rant, which, when Hermione got started, was a while yet if she had anything to say about it, which she apparently had. Harry winced in sympathy for his girlfriend, but moved to do nothing—he had long since learned that silence was quite the virtue in cases like this, lest Hermione turn her anger onto him instead.

Ron, on the other hand, had not quite learned such a lesson, shaking his head dismissively and stalking forwards whereas Harry had smartly hung back a good few meters.

"Hermione, what's taken you so long?" he called, drawing the attention of the young woman, who was never slow to respond.

"What's wrong," Hermione began in a definitively angry tone, her hands quivering slightly, "Is that your sister has just got me into far too much trouble on what appears to be a whim, sending a _patronus_ to fetch me which, if I were in Diagon Alley or Hogsmede, would've been just _fine_ but, however, I was in the middle of _muggle fucking London_!" She ended with a screech that had Harry wincing from his place. Hermione didn't swear unless she was especially infuriated.

Ron scowled. "Well, what was she supposed to do, eh? We needed you."

Hermione's eyes flared. "I had to use Obliviate _an entire coffee shop,_ Ronald! At least _thirty_ people! And then more because, no, the patronus had some sort of sense of manners and _stayed outside the shop window!_ Are any of you truly aware of just how _busy_ London can be? At least a hundred people saw that patronus, if not more!"

"Yeah, well, that's not _important_ , Hermione—"

"Not important!" Hermione gasped, her hand wrapping tighter around her wand, a reflexive motion that Harry knew meant that Hermione was quite ready to hex Ron for his rudeness. Leaping into action; he moved in front of his foolish friend, his heartbeat racing wildly in his chest as he fought to control the rampant worry running through his veins. Hermione looked to Harry, ready to implode on him too, but the look in his eye had gave her pause.

"Hermione, George's home," Harry said quickly, taking advantage of the moment, "And I'm not sure, but I think he's done something utterly stupid."

* * *

When George had ingested the product, just before Harry's horrible revelation, he immediately felt a sort of queasiness rise in his stomach, a certain kind of unsettlement that had him shifting about awkwardly in the old rickety chair which, due to the recent events, he had immediately attributed to a sort of anxiety caused by Harry's knowledge. It was quickly rebutted not even a moment later, when nausea rose heavy and hot in his throat, his body wishing to expel the product in the swiftest of ways, a motion that George had obliged his body by doing, projectile vomiting nocuous baby pink fluid, a hue not unlike the edible charm, all over no one else but Harry 'That Unlucky Bastard' Potter.

Which had deeply disappointed Harry, but quite amused Ginny and Ron, though the humor was quickly dissipated when their older brother began to dry heave, having felt nowhere near done upchucking; his mouth feeling like it had been filled with cotton. Ron smacked George hard on the back, as if he thought George had actually something _stuck_ in his throat, an honest reaction that, for once, no one judged him for, though more accurately, however, there simply wasn't enough time given to do so when George began to flail about uncontrollably, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head quite suddenly as his spasms had him falling out of his chair.

Now, if Hermione had been there at that moment, immediately she would have known what to be done, but as it was Ron, Ginny and Harry at the moment, and none of the three of them having any sort of experience with seizures (not that Hermione did, but surely she'd read something about it, you would figure), so for a good moment the three of them sat stupidly staring at George as he tossed about on the dining room floor, the smelly pink fluid dripping off Harry's twice-ruined hair.

Molly had come into such a scene, which had been just a few breaths after George had vomited upon Harry; finding herself with a visage of the savior of the wizarding world coated with pink substance, her precious and only daughter staring dumbly at Harry, and with her youngest and least self-sufficient son staring dumbly at his older brother.

"What're you all _doing_?!" Molly had barked, as if any of the three capable party members would be able to answer her before she was grabbing George by the shoulders, hoisting him up so he sat nearly upright, therefore stopping him from accidentally choking himself with the pink dribble that ran down his chin. "What did he _do_?"

Ginny was the first to speak, eerily calm despite the fact that her brother could've just died, "I'm not entirely sure, Mum, but I think he's going to become a hulking pink rage monster… kind of like Bruce."

"Except a touch more feminine," Ron supplied, "And ginger-y."

"What in the hell are you _talking_ about, Ginevra? And just who the hell is Bruce?!" Molly screamed.

* * *

Hermione stared blankly at the two youngest of the Weasleys, her face clearly displaying incredulity that she possessed now that the three sat before her finished spinning their tale, which was intended to explain what had happened, but only served to make Hermione question their intelligence. Her arms were crossed over her chest, an eyebrow arched high as she gave them all this blank stare, deeply unsettling all three of them, particularly Harry, who was more than aware that the look was usually always paired with some sort of rant.

However, they seemed to luck out, Hermione too emotionally drained to even desire to yell at them, seemingly deflating right before their eyes, tire showing quite easily in her stance, sighing as if she had the weight of the world upon her shoulders. It took her quite a while to speak, so long that it had even Ron worrying about her stress level, eyeing her warily.

Ginny sighed heavily herself, although carefully—after all, she was still unsure if Hermione was still ready to hex her for the patronus she'd sent.

"Hermione, we're sorry for springing this on you all of a sudden," she apologized sincerely, pushing up off of the crowded couch, taking careful steps towards the bright young witch, ready to parry off a spell or two at the drop of a hat. Thankfully, she had no need for this air of caution—Hermione simply cast a tired look at Ginny, all fight dissipated.

"No, it's fine," Hermione finally said softly, "It's not your fault, after all. It's George's." Ginny winced on behalf of her older brother, but didn't speak. Hermione looked down at the ground, virtually staring holes through the aged, over-worn wood as if it had done something to personally earn her wrath. Ginny could see not just tire in Hermione's eyes, but also sadness—worry. Worry for George and his burgeoning stupidity.

Ginny would have to be an unobservant idiot with the scope of a pebble to not know that Hermione had feelings for George. Circe, even Harry and Ron knew, and they were _quite_ well known for their beyond-stunted emotional observance abilities. Most of the entire family had figured it out, with the exception of her father (because Ron had to inherit his oblivious nature from _somewhere_ ), even Charlie; who was never even _home_! The Weasley clan proper rooted in favor of George and Hermione getting together, especially Ron, since it would mean that his older brother would be happy and Hermione would be around more often and officially and properly a part of the family, like everyone knew Harry would be someday as well.

However, Hermione seemed intent on keeping the interactions she had with George to a minimal degree, even before George's embarrassing string of failing charms and spells, and she was quite keen on keeping her mouth shut about the topic, so much to a degree that the aforementioned oblivious Weasley patriarch even noticed the change in her behavior. Hermione was usually outright about most things, particularly honest when it was needed (and, frankly, when even it wasn't) and didn't try to skirt around things, especially the way she seemed to with George nowadays, and the _entire_ family had noticed that. Whenever George's name was even _mentioned_ , Hermione would shirk away in some sort of way, finding something else that needed attention paid, like the hem on her uniform skirts or the immense amount of hair that Crookshanks seemed to be leaving behind lately on her furniture.

"So, what's wrong with George? _Did_ he become the Incredible Hulk?" Hermione asked, the hint of a fake smile tugging at her lips.

Harry squinted. "By the way, I had no idea you read comic books."

Hermione looked at him. "It's still a book, Harry," she reminded him, "A picture book, maybe, but a book nonetheless. Who am I to reject stories of any kind?" She turned back towards Ginny. "Well?"

Ginny frowned. "Not really," she said, her brow furrowing, "He started upchucking and the like, but didn't become a creature. Actually… I'm not quite sure _what_ happened, to be completely honest. Mum shooed us off, and I sent the patronus, then we had to get that gunk off of him and the shower _just wasn't cutting it_ , and—"

Hermione put up her hand, a universal sign to cut off the verbal upheaval that arose from Ginny's mouth. Ron sniggered a bit at that but didn't say anything. Harry shoved him in the side, none-to-gently, making him grunt out.

"So is he upstairs, I can assume?" Hermione asked, quite rudely at that, but none of the three of them made any comment.

Ginny sighed, and nodded. "Yeah. With Mum."

Hermione nodded, and then gave them a large, incredibly fake smile.

"Then I should probably see what's happened then, shouldn't I?"

* * *

Mrs. Weasley was opening the door before Hermione was even completely up the stairs, a worried, but grateful look advertised plainly on her face.

"Oh, Hermione, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, holding out her arms, "It's been far too long. Come, come."

Hermione smiled, sincerely now despite the unhappier turn of events that seemed to have occurred, and obliged Mrs. Weasley with her wish, allowing the mother of seven children to envelop her in a tight hug that could only befit a woman who had to give affection to a large assortment of children. She truly missed Mrs. Weasley; she was what made the Burrow a home for Hermione to even turn to, a home away from her own real home, where she was not just understood, not just accepted, but treated as nothing less than just a normal person, which, when one remembered exactly what Hermione had come from. She had been picked on relentlessly in the muggle world, not just for the 'random accidents' that occurred around her from the ages of six to eleven, but mostly for her dorky, bookish nature, as well as her lack of socialization skills—the bushy hair and the bad teeth had, to some extent, been completely a cursory issue (but one she still got made fun of for, mind you), and found no acceptance in the peers she found in that world. Of course, she'd also very nearly not made any relationships in the magical world, either—truly, if it had never been for that troll that nearly bludgeoned her to death, she would never have been able to call either Ron or Harry friends, not even _mention_ the rest of the Weasleys and her Hogwarts family.

She returned the hug with a tight embrace of her own, which pleased Mrs. Weasley greatly; she was used to giving hugs, not receiving them, for the most part. She gasped happily, somehow managing to tighten her grip, choking a small, delighted laugh out of Hermione. Her mum hugged her like this sometimes, usually when she was gone for months at a time whilst at Hogwarts, but not so much anymore. Hermione almost cried at that thought.

"Hello, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione choked out.

"Oh, now, now, you haven't a reason to cry, sweetheart," Mrs. Weasley said, pulling back and giving that patent warm smile of hers, "One of my boys has only just gone and done something quite stupid once again. Nothing out of the ordinary, now, is it?"

Hermione laughed lightly. "Yes, I guess when you put it that way, it is nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, it's almost refreshingly normal."

Mrs. Weasley laughed. "Quite," she said before her smile faded a bit, "When are you going to stop calling me by the old family name, now, Hermione? Molly would be just fine. I wouldn't even argue if you were to call me Mum. Actually, a variety of names would do, just not Mrs. Weasley; it makes me feel quite old."

Hermione smiled. "Apologies, Mrs. Weasley, but old habits are quite hard to break," she said, "But I assure you that I'm making all the efforts possible."

Mrs. Weasley smiled at full-tilt once more. "I hope so," she said gently before looking towards the now-closed door. "Now, I don't think Ginny quite knows the fuller extent of George's issues and, to be entirely honest, I'm not sure, either. He looks… well, the same, to be honest."

"The same?" Hermione asked, brow creasing. "Why would she call me if he's exactly the same?"

"Well, I nearly had the same question myself, but then George behaved most oddly. He looked in a mirror and… well, he began to cry," Mrs. Weasley said slowly, "Had quite the breakdown, actually, and he won't talk about what. But… he's been asking for you, anyhow. Calling your name. I put enough charms and spells on the door to keep the children from hearing him, considering that it isn't really their business." Hermione kept growing visibly confused, more incredulous by the passing moment, and Mrs. Weasley to backtrack. "Erm. Perhaps it's best you see it for yourself, dear."

"But, Mrs. Weasley, surely—"

" _Hermione Granger_ ," Mrs. Weasley said testily, using that no-nonsense tone of hers to stop Hermione in her tracks, "Now, I haven't the faintest _why_ in the blue blazes you've been neglecting our owls or 'forgetting' to come around for supper, and to be quite _blunt,_ I don't _care_ either. But you have been dancing around my Georgie for months and either he's too caught up in himself to see it or he'd rather ignore it, and it doesn't matter, but I will _not_ have it interfere with the closeness I have to my family, and yes, Ms. Granger, that most indeed includes you, because it doesn't matter worth a bit that you're not related to us by any sort of blood; you're family in my eyes, and no matter what stupidity you unwisely choose to allow yourself in, you'll always _be_ family. As Arthur and I always said, there's always room for more Weasleys, after all."

Hermione stared at her, unsure of quite what to say to that. She'd known that Mrs. Weasley _felt_ that way, it was as clear as day in the way she mothered and fawned over her and Harry, not just as her child's friends, but as her own children. She would yell at Harry as much as Ron sometimes, especially like a couple of winters ago at the Burrow when Harry joined the Weasley family in their annual game of Wintertime Weasley Whirlwind Quidditch and they were all utterly _stupid_ and had forgotten their cloaks. Merlin's beard, she'd never _heard_ screaming like that. She'd never done anything like that to her own Mum—but, then again, she'd never once ever _considered_ the idea of mischief or chaos before she'd become a Hogwarts student.

"Now, Hermione," Mrs. Weasley said, drawing back Hermione's attentions with a thumb on her cheek, wiping away the tear Hermione didn't even know she'd let go, "On you get. Make my baby boy stop crying now; he's far too old for baby tears."

Hermione, despite her sadness, couldn't help but laugh a bit at that.

Mrs. Weasley gave her that motherly smile of hers before she pulled her wand out of her robes, flicking it almost flippantly at the door, which unlocked with a succinct little _click_ before looking sweetly back at Hermione. "Now, breakfast was quite a failure of an activity, so I'm going to start on dinner quite early today to make up for it… I should be done by four this evening, please, it would mean a lot if you would join us for it, to us all." Mrs. Weasley's smile brightened just a tad before she Apparated off, possibly to find the three children downstairs, or, more than likely, to go off to the kitchen while she yelled at them during her charm casts for their methodology of fetching Hermione, because, after all, an owl would have done quite nicely.

Hermione took a deep breath before she stepped inside through the doorway, prepared for the very worst to happen, though Mrs. Weasley had been quite clear that nothing had really changed about George in what Hermione could only presume was the appearance.

How wrong Mrs. Weasley had been.

In an instant, Hermione had been able to tell something was completely and utterly different about George, without even the ability to see his face. He was hunched up in a corner of the room that, once upon a time, Fred and George had shared in their time at the Burrow, his fingers woven tightly into the strands of thick red hair, so tight his knuckles were almost white. He was groaning softly, whimpering almost, his entire body shaking, quivering, as if he had a nasty cold of some sort. His robe was strewn across what obviously used to be Fred's bed; the flannel sheet-covered mattress still containing the imprint of the last time Fred had ever slept in that bed, a feeling that had bile rising in Hermione's throat to see. She had _loved_ Fred, after all—still did. Always would.

"George," Hermione whispered, shutting the door behind herself and resetting the charms Mrs. Weasley had put up, deciding that the nosiness of the people of the Burrow was not something George needed right now.

George twitched in her direction, not turning full around towards her. "'Mione," he mumbled almost incoherently, "Why're you 'ere?"

With a need to alleviate the tension, Hermione breathed a laugh. "Because you've gone and done something stupid, haven't you? I mean, you caused _yourself_ a seizure, George."

George flinched at that rather than finding humor, which made Hermione rife with guilt. She bit her tongue gently, moving closer to the Weasley boy, who shirked more into the corner, if possible. She paused, raising a brow in confusion at his behavior.

"George? What is it?"

"D-Don't," George mumbled, obviously pleading gently with her, "You can'."

Hermione always hated confusion. Never quite sat well with her.

"Why not? You've been asking for me, I've heard." George winced at that, and she put her hands on her hips. "So, George. Would you like to explain why that is? Because I did _not_ come all the way from London to deal with this kind of behavior, George Weasley, and I will absolutely _not tolerate it_. Now, your mother is cooking supper and we need to be down there by four o'clock, and we _will_ be there, so I want you to _man up_ right now, _George Fabian Weasley_ , and I want you to _tell me right now_!"

George flinched again, which was quickly grating upon Hermione's unusually thin nerves, but she'd been having quite a busy few hours, what with the utter nonsensical chaos George had seen fit to cause in her otherwise contented day. Hermione rolled her eyes, sitting down carefully on the edge of Fred's bed, trying her best not to cry at the thought of him. Instead, she focused her mind on George's predicament, which entailed George apparently pouting in a corner like some sort of pre-pubescent girl.

Which, of course, Hermione told him quite clearly.

George hadn't flinched that time, much to Hermione's relief in fact, but he did respond with a quietly spoken profanity-filled statement that had Hermione's eyes widening in shock.

"Excuse me?" Hermione said quietly, threateningly, withdrawing her wand from the inside of her jacket, her hair seeming to crackle at the threatening level of magic disturbance she was extruding which, if not for the charms she'd re-casted, would've unsettled the family members down below. "Would you like to repeat that, George F—"

"Oh, get off it, Hermione, you're not my Mum; what right do you think you've got to throwing around my middle name as if it's some sort of trump card? It's laughable, the authority you think you've got," George said quietly, but just as threateningly as Hermione had been, "It's like you think you're actually part of the family. It's amusing, that a mud—"

Hermione's sudden Hair-Loss curse struck George square in the back of his head in a stream of ugly purple light, the Weasley crying out when the curse took immediate effect, his hair falling out in thick clumps to the ground, as well as in the tight fisted grip George had on his ginger locks. Tears streamed down Hermione's cheeks in outright anger, shocked by George's sudden slurs towards her magical background. Now, she'd known that it would take many years before the prejudices the different types of wizard and witch had towards each other, if not centuries, but she had hoped that, at least for a little while, she was done hearing it. It seemed not to be the case, however—and what was worse, it was from someone that she _loved_.

"H-How," Hermione stuttered out, " _Dare._ You. How do you… how dare you. How _dare_ you?!"

"I-I—" yelped George, "I didn't—"

"Didn't? Didn't what?" Hermione said shrilly, "Didn't _mean_ it? Did that just _accidentally_ slip out? Is that what you're trying to tell me? That you accidentally called me a name that you know _full well_ hurts me, after I've come all this way just to sort out _your_ mess?" Hermione shook her head. "How _dare_ you, George?! All I'm doing is trying to _help you_ , you ungrateful prat, because, shockingly, we all still _worry_ about you, because you've basically _off your forsaken rocker_!"

"Hermione, let me—"

"Let you, what? _Explain_?"

"Y-Yea—"

"And what would you say, exactly? That you've been bewitched by some Slytherin bird with a nice rack and a great trunk, and that she somehow _spelled_ you into saying that? Or perhaps, maybe, is it your newest cockamamie experiment that's taken you and turned you into a sorry excuse for a man, least of all a Weasley?! Your mother raised you far better than that for me to _ever_ believe such silly lies, and I consider it an insult that you would think that _I_ would ever be _stupid enough to_ ever—"

"Hermione, I just don't want you to see what I've done!" he yelped out, now scrambling into a standing position, his back still to Hermione. Hermione paused, though pointed her wand quite threateningly still, quite prepared to lose him hair in other nasty places. George sighed heavily, his shoulders falling in defeat. "I… my family wouldn't be able to tell. Merlin, even _Mum_ didn't know, because she was never quite able to do what… what you did. And if you do what you do, then you'll know, and you won't see me, and that's not what I want. I…" He fisted his hand tight, the scars from Umbridge's torture still showing on the back of his hand. "You'd be ashamed."

Hermione was quite confused now, lowering her wand slightly, contemplating his words. She still hadn't the faintest what was going on, but her heart was already dropping into the pit of her stomach, as if anticipating the outcome, somehow. Maybe, in some part of our dear wickedly brilliant Granger's mind, she already knew what it was that George had done to himself, but she didn't want to even think about it.

"George," she said softly, lifting her wand again to point at the back of George's now bare scalp, "I'm going to give you your hair back. And then, we're going to approach this like two civilized people, okay? You may _not_ hide anymore."

George somehow managed to chuckle. "I'm not sure I have a choice, 'Mione."

Hermione shook her head, despite the knowledge that George couldn't quite see it well in his predicament, so she vocally responded, "No, George, you haven't."

Growing George's hair back was quite easy, taking mere moments for it to flourish back into full thickness, followed by George raking his hair through his fresh head of hair, though he winced when he made contact with his scalp.

"Give it a day," Hermione suggested, "Sorry."

George chuckled again. She quite liked that better. "To be honest, I deserved it."

Hermione shrugged. "You did."

George continued to chuckle before he hushed down, returning back to seriousness. "Please don't yell at me, eh, 'Mione? I'll explain what happened, but please, don't yell at me?"

Hermione sighed. "I make absolutely no promises, but I will do to _try_ ," she responded, sliding her wand back into place for good measure.

George took in a breath. "I guess that's all I can ask for, isn't it? It'll do, I guess."

The Weasley, who'd always been one for the dramatics, had apparently decided against any at that moment, which was a grace that Hermione could never thank him enough for, as Hermione found herself looking at quite the shock, her mouth gaping open like a fish, sure that if she'd still had her wand in her hand, she most likely would've dropped it, because _suddenly_ , George's nonsensical rambling made far too much sense far too quickly, at least for Hermione's liking, because she could immediately tell just what he'd done.

The differences were subtle, minute, but just like always she was able to see them, from the particular crook in his long nose to the flakes of amber in his brown eyes, as well as the particular way his lip was shaped which was, not altogether different from George's, but at the same time, it was on a whole different planet. And his _ears,_ oh, his ears. He had _both of them_. How had she managed _not_ to notice such a change?

 _The hair,_ she thought in the back of her mind. George's hair had grown long and shaggy, much like his hair had been in his sixth year, but only to hide the fact that he now only had one ear, and she'd been too angry to even _notice_ such a thing when she'd cursed his hair off. Hermione raised her hands to her mouth, unable to stop the sob that escaped her, moving closer to George, breaching the gap between them. He swallowed dryly, with that throat that wasn't truly his, fidgeting, bouncing on his toes, as if prepared to run away if absolutely necessary.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, his lips opening and closing in a shell-shocked way as Hermione continued to get closer and closer, already visibly worried about the ranging possibilities in Hermione's many responses, which, for the most part, included her breaking her promise and yelling at him, and hexing him, as well.

What he had not expected, however, was a slap across his face, swift and _hard_ against his left cheek when she struck, agonized tears now streaming down her face. George didn't let out the groan he'd wanted to, knowing that he'd fully deserved it for what he'd done.

When she finally spoke, her words were full of disgust. "Of all the things, George Weasley," she said lowly, "Of all things you could've done, how _dare_ you… how dare you…" She couldn't even say it with a ball forming tight in her throat. She staggered back, until the back of her knees touched Fred's bed, and this time, she didn't care about tact, flopping down as she openly began weeping.


	3. George's Infuriating Stupidity

**Ehh. Not overly proud of this chapter. Could've been better.**

 **Thank you, reviewers! You guys are making my days by giving me feedback! I hope this up to par.**

* * *

"I wonder what's happening up there," Ron said for the umpteenth time that day, earning an eye roll from his sister. Ron hadn't done so much as step one foot away from the couch yet, and was now lazily strewn across it, booted feet up on the aged, worn arm of the familiar couch. Ginny was reviewing her tactics book for the semester to come, needing something to distract herself from the happenings of above. Harry, unlike the other two, busied himself in more useful means, like helping Molly with the dinner preparations, though she insisted many times that she could handle it and why didn't he just go and engage Ron and Ginny in a game of Quidditch or perhaps Wizard's chess?

"Well, I like cooking, actually. I'm quite good at it," he said with a smile, "The only thing my uncle ever complimented, actually, was my cooking."

To, which, Molly smiled warmly.

"Well, an extra set of hands is never unappreciated," she would keep saying, "Especially when the other children are perhaps too _lazy_ to help."

"Working, Mum," Ginny mumbled, "I'm working."

"Me too," Ron said.

"Ronald Weasley, you're doing less work than that couch is," Molly chastised with a shake of her head before she smiled conspiratorially at Harry. "Though, truth be told, they are quite horrible in kitchen, particularly our Ginny dear. She's a devil on the field, but she's a toddler in the kitchen."

Ginny mumbled some sort of response, though she was too caught up in her notes to really pay her dear Mum any real mind, which Ron laughed at her for. Harry laughed as well, amused by the teasing and jovial sport that existed in their colorful little Burrow as always, but he did not laugh as hard as he wanted to. He was far too worried about what was going on upstairs, not just about Hermione, but about George, because he had an irking suspicion of what George had done to himself, because when Ginny had sent her patronus off to fetch Hermione, Harry had looked back for a moment to see Mrs. Weasley levitating the unconscious George up the stairs, feet first.

And his hair had fallen aside just a tad.

And _he'd seen an ear that wasn't supposed to be there._

* * *

Hermione was quiet for quite a long while, so much so that George began to fidget from his place across the room, looking about awkwardly, like a trapped animal of some sort inside of a cage. He was afraid to set Hermione off just by _breathing_ the wrong way right now which, considering the magnitude of what he'd done, he believed to be more than entirely possible. She'd cursed off his _hair_ just because he'd misspoken (though, truth be told, it was still _entirely_ his fault), and she'd slapped him (very, very hard) across the face when he'd finally showed her. And now?

He wasn't sure what could happen because now, Hermione Granger was crying _that way_ again.

Like she had at Fred's funeral.

Full of anger, full of hurt, full of sadness, of regret, of pure anguish, and of deep, soulful _longing_ ; tears she'd tried so hard to hold back but when Arthur, Bill and Charlie had raised their wands up to the sky to project an array of colorful, exuberant fireworks that would've made Fred utterly proud, she'd lost it, right there, right next to Ron, who, like a dolt, wasn't sure what to even _do_ about it, so George had to jump in and Apparate them both away to the closed WWW shop, where they had both lost themselves in their sorrows together for the first and very last time.

She'd screamed Fred's name for ages, grasping her cloak tight to her body, as if she were trying to choke herself with it, her unmanageable hair hanging uncharacteristically limply around her face, as if even _it_ were too emotionally drained to even think about showing the distress that Hermione was already showing well on her own. She had fallen into a curled-up position next to the Toxic Chocolates, pygmy puffs floating down to land upon her head, her sadness affecting them as they, too, began to cry, small little tears with small little voices; as if they understood what it was that Hermione could never say. As far as he knew, pygmy puffs had no great resource for memory, but every time he was in the shop now, the puffs tended to look at him sadly, as if they, too, could not distinguish brother from brother, but they were indeed aware that _two_ had become _one_ by means of division.

George had lost his control when the pygmy puffs had begun to express their sorrow, collapsing to the ground as if he'd been shot with the killing curse, crumpling up in a gaggle of long spindly legs and slightly shorter arms, his hands fisted tight as he sobbed harder than he had about anything in his life, even that time when Percy got a particularly bad flu when he was about three and Percy'd been rushed to St. Mungo's for immediate treatment. It'd been the longest night of his childhood life.

That night, though, the night of Fred's funeral; it was definitely longer.

And now, this moment, it felt as if it were taking the metaphorical cake.

It was no great secret that George had feelings for the witch, least of all to George himself. For him, it'd been so long ago that he'd fallen for the witch that it felt like all of his life, but in actuality, it'd been in fourth year, a year after having actually met her but not having really talked to her for longer than a few moments, when Hermione had hugged George for selflessly going to rescue Harry from the hell that was Privet Drive, and he'd seen her actually, unabashedly grin for the first time, _at him_ , and though her teeth were quite funny, in a weird way that he blamed wholly on his lack of appeal to the opposing sex at the tender age of fourteen, he'd found it to be quite beautiful.

Then he began to _notice_ Granger, all around the school. At the age of twelve, she was just beginning puberty, beginning to fill out in areas that George hadn't been looking towards before and, much to his anguish, he found himself seeing it all too often for his liking, not just around _the common room_ , but in _his_ secret-hiding spot in the back of the library that was too close to the restricted section for much of the student body's liking, in _his_ back-hallways stairwell that he and Fred liked to scheme, in _his_ reserved spot in Madame Pomfrey's emergency wing (though, admittedly, she hadn't landed herself there on purpose, or so he hoped, it'd be quite worrisome that she was _looking_ to get herself petrified by a giant disgusting snake).

Point was, he saw her with far too much regularity for his own comfort, and then, to make matters worse, she began to spend _holiday_ with their family. Imagine that torture! Waking up and going to the bathroom only to be surprised by a little Granger who, in one of Bill's old shirts he'd left behind, revealed to George that she was quite fit, at least in the leg department. Or he'd be going down on Christmas morning, bright and early only to find Hermione on the couch, watching one of Fred and Ginny's many destructive, yet beautiful collaborations, a jumper on that could only be made by Mum and Ministry pajamas that could _definitively_ only belonged to Percy on, laughing in delight at the display.

And then the _worst_ possible thing had happened.

Fred had gone ahead and fucked her in sixth year.

He hadn't talked to Fred in a month when he'd done that, because Fred had been fully aware of his little crush on Hermione and there were just certain lines that Fred, as his brother, just wasn't supposed to cross. He hadn't even found out _from_ Fred, not directly, he found out from Lee Jordan, (who'd found out from Katie Bell, who had gotten a _suspicion_ from Lavender Brown [who had noticed a difference in her bed springs and, when she'd enquired her dormmates about it, Hermione had blushed sheer _scarlet_ and stuttered something about a change in sleeping patterns, perhaps, a curious statement that had apparently been in the back of her mind when she'd caught Fred and Hermione awkwardly greeting the Tuesday after in the common room]), because their friend did _not_ know how to keep his mouth shut.

Fred had tried to explain himself, of course, tried to tell George why he'd done such a thing, but George wouldn't have any of it whatsoever. It was chaotic enough, with the Triwizard Tournament going on, that Fred and George's brief falling-out had gone unnoticed by pretty much all except for Lee and Wood, the latter of which had noticed, in a bloody _instant_ , the difference in Fred and George's playing, now that George was purposefully hitting the Bludgers towards Fred's head. He always missed, of course, but it was not for a lack of trying.

It had been Wood, with Lee and Angelina's help, that they'd locked the twins in a broom closet in the out-of-bounds fourth floor corridor, where they were expected to sort out their issues or Wood would be looking for two new Beaters for Gryffindor, because he wasn't going to sacrifice a game over Fred and George. So, begrudgingly, Fred and George had talked; though to begin conversation George had punched him square in the nose, giving a slight iota of difference to the two of them that, despite Madame Pomfrey's healing, Hermione had _still_ noticed.

Fred had grunted, grabbing at his gushing nose.

"Well, I guess I deserved that," Fred acquiesced almost instantly, much to George's annoyance.

"Why _her_?" he'd spat at his twin angrily, "Any other witch, it could've been any other witch that you could've shagged, but why would you pick the only one whom I…" George trailed off, too angry to finish his statement.

Though dark in the closet, Fred could easily read him.

"I wish I could explain it, Forge," Fred had said quietly, shamefully, "I really do."

"You can speak, can you not? Use your language, man!" George barked at him.

Fred had flinched at him, but nodded enough for George to see it. "I… um… you've talked about her, a lot, George. For a while now, you talk about her really quite often, and it made me curious as to _why_ a little nerd like Granger would hold your interests. So, I, um…" he had coughed slightly, awkwardly, "I got curious, y'know, 'cause she's held your interests for _so_ long, and I wanted to see what the fuss was about. Maybe, if I could, I'd help, y'know, set you two up."

George growled. " _Why did you fuck Granger, Fred?_ "

Fred sighed. "Well, I've been watching her, and watching her, and naturally, I began to… take notice of the little things you'd described. The frustrated hair-tugging, the nervous studying, the stressful weekends, the concentration in her face; I'd noticed it, George, because of you, and I… I began to… to like her, too. And not like I did before, but, proper, actual liking. And, well, _fuck,_ George," Fred had breathed, "You saw her that night. She was utterly breathtaking. I was so happy that for once we didn't arrive at the same time. You would've hexed me right then for that reaction I had. And then I found her later, crying because of Ron, and I… I just…"

He paused, George didn't know for what, but found out just moments later when Fred's broken voice continued, "I'm so _sorry,_ Georgie-boy, I really am. I'm a proper idiot, and never, _ever_ , should I have ever _thought_ to even _touch_ 'Mione. But… I couldn't help myself, mate. I fell for her, too."

* * *

"George?"

The Weasley boy blinked owlishly, having been so lost in thought about the past that he'd forgotten about the present, finally focusing in on a puffy, red-eyed Hermione eyeing him with an unreadable expression. Knowing she had his attention, she'd wordlessly patted the space besides herself and, despite not wanting to intrude on that space, he did as commanded anyways, sitting beside her, nervously wringing his hands in the way that, unbeknownst to our dear George, Hermione quite liked, though admittedly, she wasn't paying much attention to that either, at that very moment. Instead, she focused on the features of 'his' face, as if searching for something in the spotting of freckles on his pale skin. He shifted about uncomfortably after a while, not used to anyone trying to inspect his face for prolonged periods of time.

She finally exhaled a heavy sigh, closing her eyes nice and tight.

"Please, George, I would like you to explain now," she said quietly.

George's throat tightened up, as if it could physically stop him from telling her, but he powered through, biting the inside of his mouth.

"One of the projects Gred and I were working on before… well, _everything_ , it was supposed to erase the need for polyjuice potion, which is expensive as anything and far too complex for standard production, and provide a tasty and need-fulfilling option without the requirement of brewing said potion _or_ the need for hair. The user would simply need to take a bite, picture the person they wanted to become, and one, two; you'd become that person, even growing or losing body parts as required. I hadn't touched the project in months, but I was so _sure_ I could finally figure out the problem and make Gred proud of me," he said slowly, carefully choosing his words, watching Hermione's face carefully as he spoke, "And I was sure I'd gotten it today, so I brought it round here, figuring I could try using Harry or Gin, and, she, well…"

"Coerced you into using it on yourself," she supplied.

"Quite," he coughed out awkwardly, "Anyways, it _did_ work, technically, but I was _sure_ I'd been thinking about turning into Victor Krum because, honestly, it would've been _hilarious_ to see Ron's face at that, but… I guess that I…" He trailed off, looking away now. "When I came to, I saw myself in the mirror and I'd known in an _instant_ that I was no longer George."

"You're Fred," Hermione whispered.

George nodded. "I'm Fred," he agreed sadly, "And I'm so ashamed of it."

Hermione's eyes snapped open, fire burning.

"You _should_ be," she spat at him, "Fred needs to be let _go_ , George."

George's—or Fred's, were they?—eyes widened in fear of that. All of his life, it'd _always_ been Fred and him. They were Fred and George, or George and Fred, or the Weasley Troublemakers, or the Hellspawn; whatever the case, it was never _Fred_ or _George_ as separate entities, independent of each other. They'd never experienced more than a few minutes apart from each other, because even in each other's dreams, usually the other brother would be alongside for the adventure. Separation had never even been a thought for them, not even when George had wanted to beat the daylights out of Fred for sleeping with the very girl who was glaring daggers at him.

"I… I know," George breathed out, shocked by the suggestion still, "I've been told. But…"

Hermione arched on dangerous eyebrow. "But?"

George fidgeted. He really didn't like being still; made him antsy.

"But… it's always been… been me and him, hasn't it? It's not like we were apart for longer than a _bathroom_ trip, 'Mione. Everyone always confused us, even our parents, and it's not their fault, it's none of their faults, but it's hard to let go when one of the very few people to see _any_ figment of individuality in Fred and I is six feet under, _and_ that person _was_ Fred." He shifted. "Mum still says Fred's name when she's talking to me, sometimes. Dad does it, too. Everyone does, 'cept for you, and I have to pretend that I don't notice because they think I have a short fuse."

Hermione paused in her rage, tempering down a bit. "Y… You know?"

He nodded. "Not daft; just lazy. Of course I know. And I don't know how to tell them they don't have to dance around me anymore. I've said Fred's name _loads_ of times right now, and I think you have too, and I haven't flipped out, have I?"

Hermione contemplating this, gradually simmering down. "No, you haven't," she realized quietly.

He hung his head now, shyly looking at her from under Fred's unusually thick eyelashes. He was glad he got the thinner ones. How could Fred ever _see_ with those shrubs attached to his eyelids?

"I also noticed that you've been avoiding me, Hermione," he admitted sadly, watching the young witch stiffen, and then look away with an unreadable expression.

"You could've said _something_ ," she mumbled.

"I wanted to give you space," he said, "You lost Fred, too."

Hermione paused. "I always suspected you knew," she said, reading right into George's words.

"Found out the first time from Lee. Caused a bit of a riff between Gred and I. The other times… direct from Fred himself, in detail," he said, somehow managing not to add the _excruciating_ he'd wanted to put in there.

Hermione's face didn't change, but he knew by the tips of her ears that she was reacting.

"Does he not know privacy," she breathed, annoyed, before going back over his words with a deep frown developing. She looked back at him, curiosity in her features. "What do you mean, you and Fred had a falling out?"

"I believe the word was _riff_ ," he said half-jokingly, earning himself just the smallest of smiles, his sense of humor finally coming back to him, "And I mean that I… didn't… take the news very well is all."

Hermione kept pressing, but of course. "And what does _that_ mean?" she inquired.

George sighed, unsure of how to approach this—be vague and eventually have to answer anyways, or answer bluntly, and get his expected outcome of shock and rejection, which he did not want in the slightest. He was happier with the little witch not knowing about his deep, practically life-long crush on her, and he would keep it that way, except now he had inadvertently pushed himself into a corner in this situation. He couldn't even lie; he knew Hermione could sniff out a lie like Harry could find trouble. If Fred were here, he'd _maybe_ be able to talk enough nonsense that Hermione would leave it alone, but Fred wasn't, truly wasn't, it was just him and his dream witch, and he had a decision to make, a decision was completely and utterly sure would leave him nothing but heartbroken in the end. So, George came to his decision, his first truly major decision on his own, and headed down the road he was sure would only lead to disaster.

Hermione was sure George was going to try and come with a fib of some sort, or maybe try to joke his way out of it like he would used to, but much to her shock, George hadn't even tried. She didn't know what caused this, and honestly, she hadn't a care in the world, either—all that mattered was that George was suddenly kissing him as hard as he could, as if he could sear her lips into memory with the kiss.

And Hermione found herself… utterly disgusted, she found, but not for the reason that one would expect. See, although the pictures and the possessions of Fred Gideon Weasley had her heart going through something like a meat grinder every time she laid eyes on them, she knew well enough to know that hers and Fred's time together, it was _done._ There would be no more secret trysts, or secret snogs, or quiet flirting, or outright affection anymore. Those days were gone—but she had plentiful opportunity to do them with George as _he_ was, but not in the form of her late lover. She was ready—she wanted _George_ now, body and soul, like she had for far too long. However… she didn't want him… _like this._ Not while he was Fred. She wanted George when he was George, and that way only.

George, on the other hand, had noticed right away a concerning lack of response from the witch and pulled back, breaking off the kiss before Hermione had really a chance to respond.

"Sorry," he said quickly, running a hand through thick hair, "I'm so sorry."

She winced. "George, I…"

"Do you even _see_ George right now, Granger?" he asked, without any bite to his words, surprisingly enough for Hermione, but she was quick to read the expression on his face: he was too heartbroken to think about anger. Anger had never been the twins' thing, but it had especially not been George's. Fred was the one who got madder quicker (which, with the twins, was quite a relative thing), and Hermione had a theory that it might have something to do with in which the order the two had been born; Fred always claiming he was the older one.

"What? _Yes,_ " she was quick to respond, but George was, unfortunately, far too upset to hear it.

"Ah, you do, I knew it. Not even _you_ could see the George in me. I can't even see the George anymore, sometimes," he said, sorrowfully, "Fred got minutes without _me_. Five whole minutes, did you ever know that?" Hermione knew exactly what he was talking about: the exact thing she'd just been thinking about. "But, for me, I… it's always been Fred, innit? Always been Fred. All my life, and there's always been Fred. And who's George, anyhow? They only knew about the one baby, but magic, it's got its ways of surprising you every single day, hasn't it? You get one baby and, guess what, there's an extra one. Funny that, hmm?"

He was growing erratic, not frustrated, but definitely could blow his top at any time, which Hermione was frantic to avoid, but she knew that when George got this way, there was no stopping him, really. Fred had told her that much.

"George, I… I didn't…" she began before George cut her off.

"Please, Hermione, you can stop. I've done quite enough to muck things up already, I know. All I can do is muck up anymore, apparently," he said, looking away now, "Because it's only going to ever be Fred for you. You're not going to wanna settle for his twin. His freakish twin with one ear. Not when you've had the real thing. I get it."

He stood up now, moving away from the bed.

"Perhaps it's best you leave now, 'Mione," he whispered quietly to her.

Hermione's heart ached. "G—"

"Please, _no more_ ," he said so softly that Hermione wanted to go back in time just to kiss him back, "I think I need to be on my own for a while, Hermione. Go on. I'll come down for dinner, even, when I'm ready. Wouldn't want Mum to come up ready to rant at me for holding the two of us up; it's for the best that I be on my own for a while."

Hermione opened her mouth, but suddenly, she thought better of it. There was nothing she was going to be able to say to George, at this point, that was going to change his mind. She bit her bottom lip, chewing it until she actually drew blood, before standing up, fisting her hands at her side, doing her best to not cry. She'd cried too much today already, and she was quite sick of it. She wasn't going to cry about this, not if she could help it.

She was going to go downstairs and help Mrs. Weasley set up the table for dinner.

Then she would dig in, with Ron at her right side so she could turn to left towards Mrs. Weasley and ignore her son's animalistic eating habits.

She was going to laugh so much her head hurt, and eat so much her stomach ached, and George would come down, acting like his old self once he got a handle on himself, and they'd continue to laugh until Ron got physically sick because he _always_ overstuffed himself, and then she'd stay for a few more hours to chat with Ginny and laugh at Ron's stupidity and offer Mrs. Weasley help with the dishes, although usually Harry was quick to help her, and George would still be his old self, making Ron engage in an argument that he wouldn't know was pointless.

And then she'd wish them a good night, and Mrs. Weasley would give her another hug and beg her to come around again, and Gin would come and thank Hermione for coming on such short notice, and again apologize. Harry would hug her, too, and maybe Ron if he hadn't gotten lazy yet, and maybe George if he hadn't left before her.

And she'd come home, with the memory of a beautiful night on the road to rejoining her family-away-from-home, and for once she wouldn't think a lick about any of her problems before going to sleep that night in front of another rerun of Muggle television shows.

That was what our dear Hermione Granger wanted to do.

But she didn't.

She instead Apparated away from the Burrow that very instant, landing in her childhood backyard before collapsing into a mess of tears, not caring if any Muggles had seen her, clenching onto the cleanly cut grass as if it were her one anchor to the world, crying again in the way she didn't want to.

This was how her parents had found her and, despite their residual anger with Hermione's actions, they began to console their heartbroken baby girl.


	4. Wrong Place, Wrong Everything Possible

His mum's Howlers were getting quite frequent now, so much so that Errell, the poor daft bird, was downright overworked with having to bring his mother's letter three times, maybe even seven times daily to his flat in Diagon Alley where, over the course of the past week, George had finally begun the long process of going through Fred's possessions and deciding which ones he would be keeping or not. Logistically, he wanted to keep everything, but Hermione's words rang in his head like a drum: _let Fred go_ , a rhythm-less beat that made him want to throw up every time he thought about it.

Hermione was right; she was always right. He had to let Fred go. He couldn't hang onto his ghost for the rest of his days. Fred was gone and, as he knew full well; Fred was at peace. He wouldn't be returning as a ghost. Not everybody did. It was mostly the unsettled, the ones who felt their time to be cut too short without rhyme or reason, like Moaning Myrtle—or, simply put; those whom had been too afraid—and the _last_ thing George wanted for his brother was to live an existence like the ghosts. It was a terrible way, in George's mind, to have to spend eternity, watching everyone else grow and age besides you, though he was smart enough never to prose that to any of the ghosts he'd encountered (Hermione was right, his mum _had_ taught him manners).

George chuckled lightly as he came across the toy broomstick they'd stolen from Ginny when she was just a toddler, the twins deciding they weren't going to treat their baby sister any different from the rest of their family, which was good as it turned out, because in a lot of ways Ginny was far too Weasley for even her own good sometimes, which meant Ginny was prone to striking back at the twins in some way. But, that first time they'd pranked Ginny; it'd been the only time she never struck back, mostly because she'd been too shocked to realized what they'd done, though their mum had raised holy _hell_ about it. He wasn't surprised or shocked in the least that Fred had _kept_ the damn thing all these years; Fred could be sentimental like that. Most of Fred's drawers were crowded with old trinkets and useless junk, virtually all of which were from their assortment of pranks over the long years. Empty charm packets, basic potion ingredients, coins, rubber balls, hats, Charlie's shoe, a shriveled-up Mandrake; Fred fit the definition of what the Muggles would call a hoarding disorder, but George knew that each item, no matter what it was, held some sort of meaning to Fred; a treasured memory he wouldn't bare to part with.

It hurt George to just throw it all away, so he kept just a few, but most; he threw into the bottomless box he had sitting beside him. He was planning on leaving it on a corner in Hogsmeade, where some soul in need of random junk was bound to make use of the assortment of things Fred had kept. That idea made him feel better than just throwing it away, as if it all held no meaning at all.

It was midafternoon before George had finished emptying out Fred's drawers, not even using his wand; feeling that somehow he'd be cheating if he didn't do it by hand. It was strenuous, to say the least, as Fred _did_ indeed have far too much junk, but each piece that left his own hand into the box felt like some sort of weight off his heart.

 _Yes, this was a good starting point,_ he'd decided as one of the assortment of pygmy puffs from the shop made a home atop of his head, _and I'll deal with the rest after this._

He knew he had far too much for atone for, not with just Hermione, but with his whole family, too, who had all found out from Harry, who'd forced Hermione to tell him and, despite having a stunning lack of a violent nature, had come to his flat and Stupefied him for how he'd treated Hermione, and threatened to actually kill him if he ever _looked_ at Hermione funny, and _then_ went to the Burrow and told them what had happened that night that Hermione had disappeared. It was actually the reason why he received Howlers with such frequency, and also why his father, the person he'd least expected, sent him a _very_ stern letter which, from an outside observer, was not nearly as bad as a Howler, but considering the very few amount of reprimands his dad had given out throughout his childhood, it made its very own category.

In fact, all his family, it seemed, had been sending him angry mail recently. Charlie had sent a package from Romania filled to the brim with dragon dung which, even without thinking about it, one safely could assume to be the most _rank_ smell to ever exist, so he'd Apparated to the Malfoy manner and had hidden it under what he'd hoped was Draco Malfoy's bed, but would be just as happy if it were his scumbag father instead.

Bill had sent him a letter that, when opened, shot him in the face with what he _so_ would have preferred was lemonade, which was creative since the only words Bill had actually written on the page was, 'From all of us, with love', which George could only wonder if it was just Bill who'd contributed to it or if the _entire_ family had joined in, which could possibly include even the proper Delacour clan.

Even Percy, who didn't even particularly like Hermione past her academic record, had sent him a particularly nasty piece of mail threatening to use his influence in the Ministry to see to it that George's life would be particularly miserable in the next few months should he step another toe out of line—but that possibly had something to do with the possibility of Daily Prophet's endless stream of gossip that could occur in that case.

Ron and Gin were by far the most direct; their threats so blatant and to-the-point that George almost cried at the lack of imagination, especially on Ginny's part. Honestly, it was something he'd expect from Ronald, but his baby sister had more fire than that, though at the end of one letter she _had_ added in literal flame so he'd nearly seared his eyebrows off, so she could get a few points for that.

Actually, it wasn't just limited to his family, but anyone who'd ever been in _contact_ with Hermione: Lee, Seamus, Dean, Angie, Katie, Alicia, _Cho Chang_ (surprisingly), Oliver, Neville, Hannah, Luna, and _even Colin fucking Creavey's mum and dad_! He was actually surprised he hadn't received one from Professor McGonagall, at this point, but he figured she was probably penning him a nice little something at that very moment. Even Hagrid had sent something, though he was by far the nicest, next to the Creavey family and Luna (Neville's letter had a surprising amount of bite to it; he was so proud of the boy).

Harry had remained quiet, but he'd made himself utterly clear the day he'd Stupefied him. Letter would far too much, George felt; it would take away the threat level he was supposed to feel towards Potterboy.

George felt plenty bad already without all the angry parcels he was receiving, but he did his best not to let it bother him as much as he could. They only saw the one side to the story, even his best friends, even his _family_ ; assuming that somehow he'd come out unscathed from what had gone down between them that day in his childhood bedroom, like he was some heartless villain who just arbitrarily decided to break the girl's heart, which wasn't the case, not at all. He just didn't know how he could fix it—and it wasn't quite like Granger was trying all that hard herself. It'd been two _months_ since the incident, and Hermione hadn't tried to owl him once, from what he could tell, but considering the swamping amount of hate mail he found himself recently on the end of, he was pretty sure he would notice a letter like Hermione's, which would be endlessly polite no matter how angry she would feel.

George pushed thoughts of _her_ off to the side, returning to the task at hand as he settled back to work, dislodging the poor puff that had begun to nap in his hair. He'd been going to the WWW with some amount of regularity in the past few weeks, enough so that the Daily Prophet did a report on their sightings of his comings and goings in the area of the shop, which had been the subject of yet _another_ Howler thanks to Mum.

Because he didn't have enough of _those_ already.

He rolled his eyes as, practically on cue, an owl seemed to breeze in through the window he'd pityingly left open, skillfully dropping the blood red envelope onto his small dining table and going back out the way it'd come, without stopping or skipping a beat, having grown quite used to frequent visits to George's flat, to which George sighed regretfully. He ought to keep some bird feed around. Wasn't fair to the bird. Putting his hands on his hips, he considered the pros-and-cons of actually following through with this, whilst the puff made its way back into his hair, sneaky and quietly, although George noticed (thanks to what Muggles would call _ADHD_ , George noticed a lot of things because of it).

He looked up towards the top of his head now, despite the fact that he couldn't see it. "So, Paul," he said, arbitrarily naming the creature which had in fact been an Adam two days ago, though it did not mind (as it was quite used to this), "What d'ya say to a bit of an adventure 'round the Alley?"

Paul chirped quite happily at the idea.

* * *

Hermione had been at Flourish and Blott's before George Weasley had managed to ruin her day, which he had done in a most spectacular yet highly usual fashion, a feat which only a _Weasley_ —no, not just any Weasley, a Weasley _twin_ —could manage.

She had a small tea in hand, a spicy exotic tea that she'd but only smelled before in the depths of Rosa Lee Teabag, she was browsing the seemingly infinite unbounded shelves of the familiar bookstore, deciding on this particular day, for a reason that she, herself, did not fully know, that she wanted to be in Diagon Alley rather than her favorite shop in London. She hadn't stepped foot into Diagon Alley in _months_ , after all—not when Weasley's Wizard Wheezes stood desolate on its corner, unused and left to rot: a symbol of the absolute guilt she felt whenever she thought of George.

She hadn't _meant_ to break George's heart, nor had she _meant_ to turn his entire family against him in the process. It was, in fact, the last thing she'd ever want; to turn one's family against them for such a silly thing—and truly, Hermione thought, this was quite silly. It was a silly little argument, a silly, silly, _silly_ foolish little spat, that had escalated far beyond where it should've, or at least that was the way Hermione _wanted_ to feel about it—because if it _were_ just a silly little argument, or a silly, silly, _silly_ foolish spat that had escalated far beyond where it should've; Hermione definitively _not_ feel as so hurt by it as she did. That 'silly spat' had left her devastated, absolutely _wrecked_ , and the worst part of it all was the fact that she'd no idea how to even begin to fix it. She, Hermione Granger, smartest witch of her age and possibly the second-most resourceful person _ever_ , could not figure out how to go beyond fixing the damage that had been done.

Each day that passed, Hermione just wished that she'd kissed George back. That she'd been able to overlook the fact that it was George as _Fred_ kissing her. She wished she'd stayed her ground instead of running away when George had rebuffed her, wished that she'd _made_ him see reason, made him _understand_ why she couldn't kiss him when he was Fred, though, truthfully; she couldn't truly explain it either, although it was dead simple, to be frank.

She had loved Fred. Deeply, truly, undeniably so, in fact. Fred had her first kiss, as well as he first… _everything_ , at least in the sense of physicality. She'd fallen head over heels for Fred before she could even think, and she'd loved him not only as a lover, but as a valued friend, as someone she'd cared deeply about.

She had loved Fred.

 _Had_ loved him.

Fred was dead. It was a fact that she couldn't ignore even if she'd tried. Fred was dead, and Fred was gone. There would be no more secret trysts in Lavender Brown's bed. There would be no quiet exclamations of devotion from Fred. There would be no more whispers of adoration. Fred was _dead_ , Fred was _gone,_ and no matter how hard she or George wished it, Fred was _not_ going to come back.

She was no longer in love with Fred. She couldn't be. She remembered the feelings well, and for the most part, she still did feel them. They would take a long time to ever fade, and she would never regret them, even if they did mean a life unfinished. But Fred was a chapter of the ongoing tale of her life, and it was a chapter that was now _finished._

She'd kind of hoped that _George_ would be the next one.

She'd fallen for George about a year after her first time with Fred, specifically when she'd caught George gently consoling a little first-year girl in the Gryffindor common room long after she was supposed to be in bed. It was back when Umbridge was willingly torturing children in order to gain information about the DA, and a large portion of children tortured were Gryffindor children, as they were in Harry's house and, in theory, would hear information more easily than a child of, say, Ravenclaw. However, they tended to be careful not to include anyone in the DA who didn't want to be, and so, as they were careful about what they would said in the common room or just _anywhere_ in the castle, in order to save the innocents; that little girl knew nothing—she actually stayed as far away from Harry as a Gryffindor could, on the behest of her parents. However, she hadn't stayed far enough away—after a round of Veritaserum, harsh questioning and, then, the _writing lines_ —that girl had been broken from the moment she'd snuck her way back into the common room after the suitable hour.

Hermione had been the staircase to the girls' dormitory when she'd heard the crying, and she'd been unable to ignore it, immediately shutting her book of Offensive Spells and Hexes for the Wizard or Witch and moving quietly down the stairs, not wanting to frighten the source of the tears with her stomping. When she'd gotten to the bottom of the stairs, however, George was already there, an arm around the girl's skinny shoulders, rubbing gently with his thumb whilst he leaned close, pointing at the markings on the back of her hand and speaking lowly to the girl with a consoling smile upon his lips, talking her tears into a slow stop, until she was smiling with him—not happily, but definitely not sadly.

She hadn't realized at the time she'd fallen for George in that moment, watching him basically be what he was—a big brother—but she'd kept a watch since then, noticing him approach the girl several times before he and Fred had left the school, asking her how she was doing or if one of the boys had been picking on her, or if she was taking care of herself. Little things that wouldn't mean much to an outsider, nothing more than small talk to the unknowing, but Hermione saw the truth. That girl had been _thankful_ for George's care, grateful for his continued presence in her life, which he had no obligation to do but did anyways, as that was whom George Weasley was. He didn't care just for the moment, he seemed devoted to care from that moment on for the rest of his days. He probably still cared now, and that girl was _dead_. Killed in the Battle of Hogwarts by a Death Eater.

George had brought her purple flowers to lay on her grave, which he'd laid down right before Fred's funeral. She'd loved purple. Dyed her hair with purple streaks in her second year, which had thrown McGonagall into a bit of a fit but, eventually, she'd allowed it. He'd even spoken to her parents.

To this day, he didn't know that Hermione knew that.

Hermione swallowed dryly and hard, forcing back the tears she was refusing to shed at the mere thought of the boy she loved. She _wanted_ to tell herself that she was an idiot, that nothing could ever happen between herself and George, that they simply were not meant to be together, and oh, how she wanted to _believe_ it, but a small part of her, the childishly romantic part of her, still wanted to believe that she and George had a snowball's chance in Hell at becoming something.

Scowling now, growing angry at herself, she shoved the book in her hand back into its spot on the shelf, treating a bounded collection of ink and paper quite poorly for once in her life, in fact, which was enough cause for a patron nearby who'd recognized Hermione to have a sudden chill run down their back. Hermione, now thoroughly put out, moved to leave the bookstore, despite not having bought a single book, much to the bemusement of the poor employee on duty today, who had found himself bombarded with questions from a patron about the possibly abusive, crude contents of one book, specifically the book Hermione had shoved back into place—which was nothing more than trashy magical romance novel, which was complete with moving drawings that would've made her, usually, blush, but she found herself too angry to be embarrassed about indecency. In fact, she found herself too angry to enjoy much of anything at all at this juncture, not even a book, so she left the shop, tea forgotten in her grasp.

She hated how easily George could send her into a mood, even when he wasn't there. It was a special skill that she wished he didn't have, the ability to affect her so deeply, and it drove her absolutely _bonkers_. Not even Ron could affect her like this, and Ron was the long-standing king at driving Hermione insane, a title which George so easily overtook. Her free hand tightening into a fist, she tried simultaneously to relax which was impossible due to the only increasing tension she felt.

"Granger, that you?"

Hermione didn't even realize her eyes had closed, but now they snapped open, alight with fury and anguish as she realized that the object of her very thoughts stood before her, his face only inches away from hers due to his childlike curiosity, a purple pygmy puff chewing at the thick strands of red hair atop his head. His brow furrowed in concern, his mouth contorted in a small frown as he tried to figure out what was wrong—he'd never seen Hermione come out of a bookstore so upset; it sounded like an oxymoron in and of itself. An impossible impossibility if there ever was one, in George's mind, and so curiosity had taken over him; forcing him to come across to her despite the fact that his first gut feeling was to go the opposite direction.

George wasn't aware of what Hermione was thinking, obviously, though he had no reason to, either. George had been otherwise detained focusing his attentions on finding a brand of owl feed that Paul the Puff agreed with (George was seriously considering making Paul its official name; it just seemed to fit) and ignoring his mother's mail than to think about Hermione, whom he thought about with enough consistency in the first place. George didn't like to think about the girl he loved for too long; eventually it caused him pain to think about Hermione and her rebuttal, and unlike Hermione, George was quite able to ignore his true emotions, like a true Weasley if there ever was one.

He did think about her, though, every single day for the past two months, because although it caused him pain to think about her, it didn't stop him from being so enraptured by her. Hermione was hard to understand for George, and not because she wasn't a pure blood like Malfoy would've said or because she was a genius like Harry would mention. No, it was because she was just so generally unusual to him.

Whenever he encountered geniuses, they tended to be cold, as well as void of human emotion, much like Percy tried to be, but Hermione wasn't. She was so full of emotion and intelligence alike, almost to a conflicting degree; her morality often at war with her natural curiosity. She loved to answer questions, but sometimes she was afraid to ask the questions. She was a bounty of opposing motions, down to her very marrow—even her physical appearance was oxymoronic. Such a proper girl, always put together and straight-and-narrow, and yet her hair was so wild, so untamed, like she'd just gone for a jog in hundred-degree weather with three hundred percent humidity, or like she'd just been tinkering in the lab when the explosion had made her hair puff up in odd directions, like in those Muggle movies Dad had made him watch when he was a kid, the ones about the 'mad scientists' whom he and Fred had so idolized.

So caught up was George in his thoughts that he hadn't even seen her move, but he was somehow aware of it even as her fist made contact with his chin, snapping his head back in a rush of acute pain as he went sailing to the ground, Paul the Pygmy biting down tight onto his hair to keep his grip. Paul let out a loud squeak when George hit the ground, but was pretty much unharmed, while George had bit down on his bottom lip so hard he'd gone straight through the flesh, a feeling he had not enjoyed. George was quick to sit up, otherwise unharmed save for the lip, which was bleeding quite profusely, bright red blood dripping freely down his chin, ruining the 'professional' burgundy and electric blue-striped trousers he'd chosen to wear today.

"What'd I do?" he mumbled, wincing due to his lip, grabbing at it with his hands. "Owwwww, Granger!"

Hermione was panting over him, her hands now on her hips, her tea now discarded carelessly on the ground, the once-hot liquid creating quite the large puddle atop the cobblestone road. Her hair seemed to crackle all around her, her magic so disturbed that it was seeming to physically manifest by electrifying her hair from root to tip, making the frizzy locks seem to stand on edge, truly giving her that mad scientist look that, honestly, had George's heart racing a bit despite the pain. He was sure he'd be at least half-hard if it weren't for the fact that Hermione looked as if she was about to castrate him for _looking_ in her direction—which, all things considered, confused him, since _she'd_ been the one to refuse _him_.

Just the reminder of it had him frowning, though the stretching of his facial muscles had him wincing in pain when it made the flesh rip just a bit more. He staggered to his feet, Paul still biting tight onto his hair, unwilling to let go for a moment. He found himself reaching up, scooping the little creature into his hand and bringing him before his face, checking the wee thing for injuries it didn't have. He sighed in relief at that, giving Paul a little scratch atop its fuzzy little body, earning himself a high-pitched and happy little squeal from it. Satisfied, he placed Paul back on his head before looking at Hermione, feeling irritation and hurt rising in his stomach when he looked into her eyes.

"Wanna explain, hmm?" he asked lowly.

Hermione's eyes flashed. "I haven't got to explain _anything_ to you, George!" she snapped angrily.

"Really? 'Cause you just assaulted _me_ , love," he said with a small growl in his voice, "And I believe I am owed an explanation."

Hermione arched a brow in disbelief. " _Assault_? Please, George, do not kid yourself. That barely constitutes as assault," she said with a snort, "Assault assumes a certain degree of _innocence_ and a certain lack of deserving, neither of which you possess. That was not an assault as so much as my giving to you your just desserts."

George laughed haughtily at that. "Is that so?" he asked, ignorant to the growing crowd that was developing around them. "How do you figure such a thing, love?"

Hermione growled at the nickname, but did not comment on it, no matter how much she wanted to. " _Because_ ," Hermione said slowly, as if she were talking to a four year old, "You do _deserve it_. For all the things you said to me! You called me a _Mudblood_!"

"You _know_ I hadn't meant that! I explained that already!" George snapped back, fire in his voice.

"You still _called_ me it! And that's not all you did, and you know it!" Hermione returned. Still, the pair was ignorant to the crowd, and even more so to the Prophet photographer snapping photos of the spat, already thinking of the possible titles she could have for what was bound to be a front page article—how could it not be, with two acclaimed war heroes having it out in the _middle_ of Diagon Alley?

George stepped forwards now. "Stop acting the victim, Granger, it doesn't suit you," he said lowly, seething now, "Take responsibility."

Hermione's entire body flinched, as if she were taking a physical blow, her eyes widening before narrowing with fury.

"Take responsibility," she repeated, incredulous, "Did you just tell me to _take responsibility_ , George Weasley?!"

"You heard me the first time, _Hermione Granger_!" George barked at her, " _Take responsibility, Granger_! You ripped out my _fucking heart_!" George's chest was heaving with an anger he had never felt before, his normally pale face turning new shades of red, in ugly contrast with the burgundy he was insistent upon wearing. Paul was burrowing deep into the thicket of hair, as if trying to hide—which he was, in fact, attempting his hardest to do.

" _I_ ripped out _your_ heart?!" Hermione screamed, her magical energy spiking so much that a window of Flourish and Blott's actually blew out, shocking and scaring many of the onlookers. It was easy for children to lose control of their magic to emotion, and for the most part, it was a bit more containable, but when an _adult_ lost control of their magic due to emotion, it was something to fear. There were spells and curses that Hermione could inadvertently cast that could result in the death of everyone in Diagon Alley.

"Yes, you did!" George screamed right back, ignorant to the broken window as a pipe burst inside Florean Fortescue's due to a similar spike, this time from the Weasley himself which, understandably so, caused even more panic than Hermione's—who knew what the infamous prankster George Weasley could unleash. "You destroyed me! I _loved_ you and you _destroyed_ me!"

So caught up in her own anger, Hermione didn't even really hear George admit that he loved her.

"What about me, Weasley?! Did you ever think about what happened to _me_?" she seethed loudly, her voice high-pitched and sharp enough to make an onlooker wince, "You're so selfish that you never even _stopped_ to ask how I felt about you kissing me!"

"You seemed to make it quite clear," George hissed, "You wished it were _Fred_."

"No, you prat, I wished it were _you_!" she snapped, stepping closer to George, neither realizing how close they were to each other, "I didn't want to kiss you as Fred, I wanted to kiss you as _you_!"

"You _were_ kissing me—" George started.

"No, I wasn't! It wasn't _you_ , and I can tell!" she interrupted. "I know what Fred feels like, and that was Fred!"

" _Is that so_?!" George barked at her, not even remotely aware that they were now literally chest-to-chest.

"Yes it is! I'll even prove it!" Hermione snapped venomously before (in an action that not even _she_ was anticipating) grabbing George by the nape of his neck, forcing his head down so she didn't have to tip-toe so high to smash her lips forcefully upon his, their teeth gnashing together in what was the most painful kiss of either of their lives; a messy kiss of slobber, smeared blood and, again, teeth—a kiss that, to the onlookers, looked absolutely revolting and unattractive, but turned on Hermione and George both with a fire alighting in their bellies.

Hermione was right in her assumption; George's lips did feel different to Fred's, in subtle ways that a lesser witch would probably miss. George's lips were softer than Fred's, which were more often than not chapped and rough from being chewed upon frequently, a bad habit of his that George apparently did not share (thank Merlin for small favors). George's lips ignited a lust within her that made the lust she'd ever felt for Fred almost seem like it was nothing at all, forcing an excited moan out of her that had some of the onlookers growing quite uncomfortable, as if they were intruding on a private moment (which, technically speaking, they were, it just happened to be in a public place).

George's arms wrapped around Hermione's midsection, forcing her to press tightly against his frame, one of her legs lifting up around the man's upper thigh on nothing but pure animalistic instinct; not a singular conscious thought running through the young genius' mind. George grabbed her by that leg, hoisting her up so both legs were now around his hips; his kisses, although pain-filled, becoming more and more forceful and insistent against her lips, his tongue forcing its way in without remorse. Hermione moaned again, this time louder, her hips beginning to move in an unmistakable motion that had some of the witches, especially the older ones, grow scandalized. This was the point at which the crowd, who'd been for the most part contented with the fact that they were watching this intense make-out session, began to realize that, if nothing was said, they would be watching something far more scandalous than that.

"Oi!" screamed a wizard from the crowd, the only one with the guts necessary to say anything, " _Get a room, wouldya_?!"

Though but a small thing, it was enough to snap the two out of their lust-induced daze, their lips breaking apart instantly as their faces turned bright red once more, and this time it was more out of sheer embarrassment with their predicament than with anger at each other. Hermione had sort of blacked out the moment she'd begun kissing George, and now that she found herself here, her lips bruised and swelling and covered with smears of George's blood and saliva, she honestly only wanted to crawl under a rock and just die. She was not into the practice of voyeurism, after all, and she did not want to perpetuate such an activity, either!

George stared at her, brown eyes wide in a mix of shock and desire, which had Hermione's body tingling in regions that hadn't been twixt in months, not even by her own hands, which had her trembling, almost, in anticipation of what she wasn't actually so sure was going to come—and rightly, how could she expect such a thing? Just moments before, the two had been at each other's throats, ready to slaughter each other if necessary, and now the situation was quite different altogether, leaving Hermione in quite a state that she wasn't even sure what she should be feeling about this. And, to a certain extent, she was almost positive that George felt the same way as she did. Although, it was quite hard to tell as, though his cheeks were red with embarrassment, she couldn't read his facial expression for his thoughts, which bothered her to a certain degree, but she found herself not needing to ask what he was thinking.

"You're not kissing me to prove a point, I hope?" he asked breathlessly, pupils blown out, the chocolate brown of his eyes like a thin rim around them.

She couldn't even get mad at that. For a moment, she almost thought she was, too.

"No," she whispered. "I… I just…" She closed her eyes tight. "I'm sorry, George."

George's heart gave a painful pang, his grip tightening on her thighs, making her wince in pain, but otherwise did not voice any sort of rejection.

"No, I… this is all me. I'm a proper fool," he said quietly. "I should've… I mean…" He closed his eyes tight for a minute, trying to catch his breath, unsure of how to approach the issue at hand. Hermione didn't blame him.

A wolf whistle sounded from the crowd. "Just take 'er 'ome 'n' fuck 'er already!" barked out a thickly Scottish-accented voice, earning raucous laughs from those in the crowd, making Hermione reach a new level to the redness that came with her mortification, whilst George, on his own part, was about halfway there to hexing the whole lot of them. George's embarrassment died down as he scowled deeply at them, wrapping his arms tight(er) around Hermione's body, pulling her closer once more. Hermione looked absolutely scandalized, burrowing her face into the fabric of George's shirt, trembling with shame. She would never be able to return to the Alley, what with this display, and especially not to Flourish and Blott's—the very front of which she was indulging in such behavior!

So scandalized was she, she began to push herself out of George's arms, struggling against his unwittingly tight embrace. She needed to get out of there, before things got worse for herself, and for George, but the blasted fool wasn't letting go; he was too busy looking venomously out to the crowd, promising certain death to all whom gave even a breath of gossip to the Daily Prophet about them with nothing more than the look in his eye and the snarl upon his lips. However, so caught up in this endeavor was George that he scarcely noticed the growing irritation from the young witch in his arms, who was only growing more and more ready to hex him as the embrace continued.

Barely able to pull her wand out of her pocket, she pressed the tip against George's hard abdomen, the only warning the young man had received before she'd Stupefied him; his closeness to the inflicted spell causing quite a bit of backlash, making him fly back a good two meters, landing gracelessly once more on his backside and, in what could be considered almost cruelty, dislodging the forgotten Paul the Pygmy, who had been chattering endlessly since they'd begun snogging, though he had found himself ignored by both otherwise detained parties. Paul looked ruffled, but otherwise unharmed, and made his own way back to the top of the Weasley's head, which was very fortunate for the Weasley in question as he was in no sort of order to do much of _anything_ in this state.

Hermione's breaths came to her in heavy pants, tears streaming down her cheeks and blood rushing to her face; feeling all parts guilt, lust, anguish, love, hatred and mortification. Trying (and failing) to collect herself together, she drew herself up as tall as she could be of a girl of her short stature, her wand tucked back into the confines of her pocket. She tried to draw her lips from anything _but_ the wobbly mess they were now, but it was to no avail, so she quickly dropped the venture.

She cast a look out to the crowd around her, who looked at her with blatant shock; the lot of them as quiet as a funeral as they stared back at her. Unsure of quite what to do, she relied on what her mother had told her to do as a child. Bending her knees, she gave the most awkward curtsy that any of them had ever seen in their lives, her entire body shaking and her bruised lips wobbling in that tell-tale effort of trying not to cry, her arms moving out, one into an oddly grand gesture and the other to look come around her front, which instead went to her knee to push herself back up again. She now was trying not to look like she wanted them to hex her right then and there.

"Well," Hermione said after a moment, "Good day."

Unsure of exactly what to do, but quite certain that they didn't want her to curse the lot of them right then and there, they responded quite unanimously, "Good day."

Which was accented by two sounds: the _pop_ of Hermione Granger's Apparition and the groan of George Weasley.

Well, three, actually; if you counted the chattering sounds of Paul the Pygmy Puff.

* * *

The Daily Prophet had been none too quick about publishing it at all. Within hours, an advance special copy of the paper was being delivered to all those with subscriptions—it was even a _free_ copy; called 'The 342nd Ever Special Edition Paper,' the three-hundred and forty first only from a few months earlier, when Harry gave a 'Super-Exclusive Interview: Into the Mind of the World's Most Fascinating Young Wizard,' which had barely taken _any_ of Harry's actual words into the final edit before publication; a grotesque article if Hermione had ever read one—and, somehow, this Special Edition blew that out of the water.

The front page had been emblazoned with the image of George and her; snogging as if their lives depended on it, passionate and angry and aggressive and sad all at once in this overly publicized display that had Hermione's cheeks scorching fiery red as the photographic images of her and George continued their endless game of tonsil-hockey. She was so furious that her eyes couldn't even focus on the words on the article around it, which spanned for an amazing three pages of sheer gossip and hearsay, her hair standing on edge, _literally_ , with the angry magical current that course through it.

Scandalized, Hermione threw the Special Edition Prophet at the foot of the bed, from where Ginny promptly picked it up, brow furrowing as she focused on the content of this paper.

"At least they got you from your good side…?" Gin said in half-cheer; a weak attempt to get Hermione to smile. Instead, the older witch groaned, flopping down face-first into her bed and burrowing her face into the fabric of her pillow. She was still dressed in the same clothes she'd made out with George in, and her lips still bruised from his kiss; so the mortification was still fresh, still hot in her belly. The fact that this had made news so quickly was horrible, and the fact that it was made into _special edition news_ made it things of a horror movie.

"I'm going to have to change my name," Hermione bemoaned, "Move to another country."

Ginny shot her a look. "I think you're severely underestimating your celebrity, 'Mione," Ginny said carefully, "You would have to grow your nose to ten times its size to stop people from recognizing you." Hermione screamed into her pillow, a pang of pity shooting through Ginny in reaction. "I mean, Hermione, it surely could be _worse_ —"

"How, _exactly_ , do you figure _that_?!" Hermione's scream was muffled a bit by the pillow, but Ginny heard it all the same.

Ginny sighed. "I dunno, but I figure it could be," she admitted before continuing, "Look, 'Mione, I think you've just to own up to it, at this point. There's worse things than to be caught snogging a boy." She giggled before frowning. "I mean, I do _wish_ you'd pick other than George, but I guess the heart wants what it wants… but, seriously, my _brother_? Why'd it got to be _George_? I mean, granted, he's a good guy and all, and perhaps somewhere down the line it'll mean I'd get to call you a sister, and that's good, however… I just thought your tastes were much refined…"

Hermione lifted her head off of the pillow just enough to give the youngest Weasley a withering glance, to which she giggled.

* * *

 **First things first, I'm now actually able to _see_ the reviews that are being written to my story (I don't use the original email tied to this account anymore, so all I knew was that I was getting them, I couldn't see what they actually said), so I'd like to thank all the reviewers:** tbeth, chrissieattheend, whenthesnowmelts, Arilasirene, agoldenthrone, **and** ReinaKanata28 **! Thank you for your praises, and I dedicate this chapter to you all!** **  
**

 **(Hopefully, that'll mean it'll actually be good. Who knows?)**

 **Secondly, I might be getting an AO3 account. I like the platform there better, and it allows me to better tag my story. I asked for my invite weeks ago and I still haven't set it up, mainly because I'm a little afraid. If I do set it up, I might transfer some of my stories over. Anything Marvel related, definitely. This story? I'm not sure. It might just be sticking here. I'll let you guys know what I do.**

 **Thirdly, apologies for sporadic updates. Hard to make time to upload work when I have other things to deal with in my day-to-day life.**

 **Fourthly, Happy Valentine's day, loves!**


	5. WWW - The Weasley World War

The weeks that followed brought a variety of changes in the family.

They found themselves split into two sects, those whom were firmly against George because of _everything,_ headed by Molly Weasley (which surprised nobody) and joined by none other than Ronald (but of course), Percy (what a surprise there, _soooo unexpected,_ wow), and Charlie (the only _actually_ unexpected one). Bill was the perceived leader of those who were more than willing to let go of everything, with Fleur as his unofficial second-in-command; a party which included Harry and Ginny (Harry was actually the only one who seemed to totter the edge; but he wanted what was best for Hermione, in the end, and it was seeming that, in the end, George was it for her), as well as, stunningly, _Arthur_ (whom simply wanted to see his boy happy again). This divide caused many a fight amongst the members of the family, as well as tense mealtimes and a definitive lack of any Quidditch matches. In fact, the divide was so deep that the chores weren't being done, not out of a lack of time; but simply out of spite.

For a solid week, Ginny found herself forced to make breakfast for herself and her father, almost burning the Burrow down in the process.

The garden went without the necessary de-gnoming for about two weeks, at which point the gnomes had tried to invade the Burrow in fact.

The laundry went undone for weeks on end, to a point where no one could bear to handle the stench of Ron's sweaty socks anymore, which had gone unwashed for more than two weeks and he was forced to still wear for lack of other options.

And so on and so forth.

It got to the point where, briefly, Harry had to call a stand-still, because he'd been scrambling to do _all_ the chores, which just seemed to multiply and multiply as he checked them off the list, and the boy was just _exhausted_. He'd been forced to beg the family to at least help him with the gnomes trying to get into the house, because there was only so much he could do about them without, in fact, killing all of them; a tactic he was avoiding even considering. It'd been a blissful three days, without the passive-aggressive fighting, but that didn't mean they hadn't been at each other's throats the entire time.

It seemed as if this was one of those unfortunate times, when the tension had boiled so heavily that passively fighting had been forgotten, leading into the physical as today found Ginny and Charlie going at it for Merlin _knows_ what. Ginny hurled a hex at Charlie, who'd taken vacation from work because of this 'family issue', nearly hitting him, although luckily, working with dragons had gained Charlie amazing reflexes. Harry sighed, beyond the definitions of exhausted, as he placed the clothes on the line dryer; too tired to try and stop their fight today. Besides, after the laundry he had to start supper, and he _knew_ how Ron got when he wasn't fed.

"Please don't kill each other," Harry said tiredly.

Charlie laughed raucously, throwing a curse of his own at his sister, whom managed to dodge. "Blimey, Potter, what'd you take us for?"

"Two siblings hurling spells at each other, but I could be wrong," Harry said blandly.

Charlie barked a laugh again, which was short lived as he found himself having to dodge a bright orange spell from Ginny, whom, despite the small smile caused by Harry's words, was completely serious otherwise. Harry didn't try to convince her to not fight, he now knew better—one Bat-Bogey had been quite enough. So Harry resigned himself to quiet, simply going about the chores he'd basically usurped from the Weasley matriarch, who cheered on Charlie from where she stood on a rickety balcony (though she did berate him quite a bit for nearly hurting Gin). Once done, he scooped up the basket once more, relocating to the house to get started on dinner.

Bill was sitting at the dining room table, reading the latest issue of the Prophet with less than enthusiastic interest. He gave a nod in Harry's direction when he entered the room, not bothering to turn his eyes away from the print—as if it were a normal thing for the young Potter to be, for all intents and purposes, the Weasley family's personal butler. Harry grunted in quasi-greeting, dropping the basket unceremoniously onto the table before continuing onto the kitchen, flicking his wand as he got the food begun; the ham pulling itself out of the ice box whilst the lettuce tailed, spices coming in array out of the cupboard whilst a knife pulled itself out of the drawer. Harry, meanwhile, pulled on Mrs. Weasley's homemade bright-pink apron, which was covered in speckles of flour dust and dried something-or-the-other. Bill couldn't help but chuckle at the domestication of the young wizard before him, which earned him a small glare from the Boy Who Won.

"Not judging, Potter," Bill said with a cheeky grin.

"Haven't you got a bank to improve security on?" he snapped back.

Bill gave a snarky tut-tut. "Moody, are we?"

"If you're going to take a piss, at least help, yeah? I can't get the spices to apply themselves," Harry grumbled crossly as he set to chopping the lettuce by hand. Apparently, the spell he'd tried was 'too harsh,' according to Mrs. Weasley—of course, she'd refused to give out the spell to use, claiming that if Harry could take down the Dark Lord, then he could figure out how to use magic to sprinkle some pepper. As if those were even comparable circumstances! The _nerve_.

Bill laughed, but got himself up, crossing the room to start prepping the ham.

"You're lucky then, that I bothered to learn from Mum, rather than the other mucks here," he said cheerily; his grin almost feral.

Charlie, whom had just finished fighting with their sister, walked into their discussion, throwing an arm around Harry's waist and pulling the boy into his body, waggling his brows at his older brother whilst the Potter fought to free himself, face growing redder by the minute; so much so that his scar nearly blended in. Charlie gave Harry a large kiss on the cheek, slobber and all, causing him to groan in disgust.

"Oh, darling dearest, what delectable do I look forwards to today?" Charlie crooned at him, slapping his ass perversely, earning an aghast look from Harry whom, if he were a different person, would've hexed him right on the spot.

"I keep telling you, this isn't _funny_ ," Harry said crossly, wiping his cheek harshly. When Harry had first met the infamous Charlie Weasley, he'd expected a highly professional man, as he'd so little to go on due to the lack of information the Weasley family had _ever_ given out about him. However, Charlie was anything _but_ highly professional; with the humor of a… well, Weasley. Not quite to the extent of the twins, per say, but he could definitely see that they got quite a bit of their humor from him.

"You do, but you don't believe it yourself," Charlie said with an amused, cocky grin before looking at Bill. "You've _got_ to stop teaching Ginny hexes, mate, it's bloody cruel. _And_ unfair. I'm your favorite, and you haven't taught _me_ hexes. What gives?"

"You're not my favorite," Bill said with a chuckle, "And I teach Ginny because I don't want her learning from something like a text book. She'll lose a body part that way."

Charlie shook his head. "Not. _Fair_ ," he reiterated with a smirk before looking about, narrowing his eyes. "Is it only Potter here?"

Bill rolled his eyes. "Ron's upstairs. Percy's at work. So is Dad. Merlin knows where Mum is. What is it?"

Charlie gave Harry a long look, as if her were staring at a fascinating creature rather than a human being. His humor had faded to the background, his lips contorting into an unfamiliar look of seriousness that had Harry's skin crawling with nervousness. Looking away uncomfortably, he tried to turn his disrupted attentions back to the lettuce before him, but he could feel Charlie's look _still_ , which somehow made it even _worse_ than before.

Bill sighed, obviously growing annoyed. "Charlie, _out with it_ , yeah?"

Charlie continued to stare at Harry.

Bill sighed again. "Charles," he said slowly, "What is going on in that little mind of yours?"

"Third in my class, my mind isn't quite so little," Charlie said without missing a beat.

"That may very well be, but you're obviously making little Potter uncomfortable, so please, out with it, yeah?" Bill asked of him.

"How's our dear Miss Granger, eh, Harry?" Charlie asked, choosing to ignore Bill.

Harry flinched, surprised by the question. He turned to Charlie with an arched brow, obviously the slightest bit confused. Charlie rolled his eyes, still serious.

"Hermione, Harry," Charlie said slowly, as if Harry was suddenly invalid, "How's she been? She hasn't been by once I don't think, from what I've noticed, and I've been here about two months now, haven't I? And she's your best friend, so obviously, you'd know how she is doing, yeah?"

Harry stared at him for another moment before narrowing his eyes. "What are you planning, Charlie?" he asked slowly.

Bill smirked. "Can't slip a thing past Potter, eh?"

Charlie shrugged. "Gotta give it to him; he's more perceptive than Ronnie," he said, backing up a bit with his arms up.

Bill groaned. "Well, when you put it like _that_ , it's not much of a feat," he responded.

Charlie grinned suddenly. "True. Our dearest little brother has the perceptive abilities of a stone, hasn't he?"

"Too true, Charles my boy; too true," Bill said, chipper.

Harry looked between the two brothers and, suddenly, he saw the twins; no longer Bill and Charlie. He could imagine what the two had been like before Percy, before even the twins, and he knew that _this_ sort of relationship was what Fred and George had idolized, even, to an extent, emulated. To a certain extent, all of the sudden, he couldn't see Bill without Charlie, or Charlie without Bill. Surely, they'd been apart, what with the time Charlie spent in Romania and Bill at the cottage with Fleur, but still, that relationship thrived still, only they had been gently guided into parting, into getting used to spending days, weeks, even years without each other; a chance that Fred and George had never gotten. And suddenly, he _knew_ , without Hermione having to point it out, that Bill and Charlie understood, more than anyone else could.

"She's not okay," Harry found himself saying lowly, "She's not okay at all."

Charlie gave a sympathetic smile.

"We know," Bill said.

"And we'll fix it—" Charlie added.

"—If you'll help us," Bill responded, in perfect echo of the twins.

* * *

For the first time in months, but what actually felt like years, Hermione was back in the Burrow, and she was very clear about the fact that she was, in fact, none too pleased about it. She actually quite looked like she'd rather spend another evening at home in her prolonged self-pity party rather than continuing a conversation with Charlie about magical creatures and their need for protections recognized under wizarding (which was, in fact, an interesting conversation, which was no surprise but did indeed help her mood, but not enough, sadly), but they had been so insistent that she come, Mrs. Weasley even going as so far as to send an actual _Howler_ to threaten her into coming. What had finally made her come, though, was Harry quietly asking her to _please, please come._

"Percy'll be at the home for once, so you'll be able to talk about your magical creatures' sector reform for the Ministry, and Bill would like to see you. Charlie'd like a chance to _formally_ meet you, and it'd mean a lot to all of us," Harry had said three days before on her couch, so sincere that Hermione hadn't actually known _how_ to say no at that very moment. And, so, cursing Harry James Potter's very name to the moon and back, she'd begrudgingly went to the Weasley house, and was the basic premise of how she found herself sitting miserably in the midst of fire red hair and freckles and brown eyes, chattering and snapping and barking at each other as if no one was missing.

She hadn't the guts to owl George, but (embarrassingly) she had gone to Diagon Alley every day since the Prophet had reported that he'd been sighted, usually in some sort of disguise and, once, underneath Harry's invisibility cloak, just to get a glance at George, which had been the main reason for her aforementioned self-pity party. She didn't like leaving things in such a broken state, didn't approve of leaving things broken when they could easily be fixed and, typically, Hermione would be completely ready to fix things, but to a certain extent, in this situation at least, things were broken pretty badly, beyond just a bit of magic. She'd broken George's _heart_ , and he, hers, and that wasn't something that fixed easily.

All of her friends had been quick to blame George, after hearing the story, but they hadn't noticed how it wasn't all his fault. It was her fault, too, in the same amount that it was George's, but people kept saying that she shouldn't blame herself, that it wasn't healthy, and she couldn't _heal_ that way, but none of them even _thinking_ a bit about George, which was a large reason why she hadn't wanted to come tonight. She was at the verge of blowing up on the family around her, the family that put blame where blame shouldn't be placed; but she surprised herself with her ability to hold her tongue.

She had to thank the firewhiskey for that. She'd consumed copious amounts; not enough to leave her drunken, but enough for her to be less aggressive about her forced presence at the Weasley table.

The Weasleys (and Harry) tried to keep the conversation light and flowing, but there was still a palpable amount of tension in the room, enough to keep Percy's jaw set tight and Ron's left hand fisted at his side, and, although they _refused_ to mention it, Hermione had a sinking feeling about this night and its direction in the hours to come, a feeling she could not quantify as good, bad, blazingly beautiful or downright ugly, so she decided that it would be a mixture of it all, which, considering the next events to come that Hermione could never have expected as she did not _believe_ in the concept of Divination like that loopy Sybill Trelawney, spoke volumes about Hermione's instincts.

So, let us set the scene.

We find ourselves in the Burrow, just outside of Ottery St. Catchpole, a warm, countryside area in Devon. Inside the Burrow, a large family sits around a comparatively small table, the group of a staggering _nine_ all squeezing in together in order to make room for each other and, most importantly, the food. The atmosphere is familial, full of warmth and familiarity and love and affection, with an underlying tone of awkwardness due to one Hermione Granger's angst, though our established heroine pushes through it in the form of polite conversation with the shorter, stockier red-headed man directly across from her, whose name is Charles Weasley, and whom, along with a one Ronald Weasley, who likes to be called Ron and sits next to our dear Hermione, make up the more muscled end of the spectrum for the family.

On the other side of Hermione sits an amazingly long man by the name of William Weasley, though typically, he goes by Bill instead. Bill is the only married child, but his wife decided not to come tonight, knowing how tightly packed the table can be. He really is physically far different from Charles, who goes by Charlie, but his build is not uncommon in this family, which will soon be mentioned again. Bill is speaking to Percival Weasley, who sits across from him, squeezed between his younger and only sister, Ginevra Weasley, and his muscular older brother Charlie, and Percy, as he goes by, would like nothing more than to be at work right now but, at the same time, is enjoying the dinner, although he would never say it.

Ginevra Weasley is similar to Percival in build in that she's on the shorter side, shorter than even Percy, but she's skinny, like Percy is, and she makes funny faces at Bill while Percy natters on about 'Ministry this, Ministry that', making Bill give a small, amused smile and one Harry Potter shake his head in amusement and affection, the only comfortable position for our Harry to be with his arm around Ginevra's—Ginny's—waist, which he's surprised he's able to do what with the family patriarch, Arthur Weasley, sitting right next to him at the head of the table, but Arthur has always been on the more oblivious side. At the opposite end of the table, the matriarch, the famed Molly Weasley sits with an affectionate smile on her face and thinking that, despite the awkward feeling, this is a good dinner, and nothing can possibly ruin it.

And that is when George Weasley enters in and ruins everything.

George Weasley is one of the children, though currently not the favorite, which, when Percy is considered, means that he must've worked quite hard to get himself there. George Weasley was not invited to this dinner, which even Percy was, as his mother is _really_ quite put out with him, as is the rest of the table, with the exceptions of Arthur and Hermione—the latter because she is not mad at him, and the former because Arthur is too caught up in Harry's Muggle stories to even hear the sharp _pop_ of George's Apparation.

Bill's body type is found in George—tall, lanky; although muscular, though, not nearly as muscular as some of his brothers, which leaves him at a stark disadvantage when Charlie and Ron 'both' attempt to tackle him. They both narrowly miss, well, more accurately; Charlie 'accidentally' (meaning, fully intentionally) tackles Ron before he can get a finger on George, taking the younger down to the ground in a tangle of limbs and curses. George moves quickly, noticing Ginny drawing her wand and Mrs. Weasley getting to her feet in that tell-tale way that tells him she's about to start _screaming_ , and Mr. Weasley, in a rare occasion, looks none too far behind her in that prerogative. Leaping forward, he takes the stunned Hermione around her waist, picking her up into his arms, pulling her tight into him and then, without even so much as warning her, Apparates away.

Bill stared at the space Hermione once occupied, observing with a raised brow and light amusement how quickly dinner had been ruined. Molly had begun yelling before she could really process that there was no one actually to yell _at_ , George having already gone and Ron knocked delirious by Charlie's tackle. Arthur, for his part, was trying to calm Molly down, but the entire family knew it'd be hours before that miracle could occur. So Bill sat himself back down, taking a sip out of his tall glass of wine, smirking to himself. It'd taken a lot to get this plan of his into motion, more than he'd ever happily admit; a lot of planning and thinking and lying for this moment, and he'd be damned if he didn't revel in the chaos that surrounded him. It'd been too long since he'd planned out something along the line of cunning—about as long as Charlie had been in Romania, in fact.

Charlie whom, at that time, had managed to extract himself from the tangle of Ron's limbs, slid into the spot besides his brother, bumping shoulders with the older man. There was a nice bruise forming upon his cheek from where Ron had accidentally clipped him; a bit of blood red and blue surrounded by a sea of flushed hot pink; Charlie's breaths coming to him in little pants as he fought to regain his composure, pride evident in his amazingly oceanic blue eyes.

"That was _wicked_ ," Charlie said after a moment.

Bill grinned finally. "Brilliantly so," he agreed, slinging an arm around his younger brother's shoulder. "We should do that again sometime."

Charlie's eyes glittered with oh-so-familiar tell-tale mischief. "We _should_ ," he agreed.

* * *

 **I should probably just name each chapter "AKA Cliffhanger for Days". I'm not entirely sure why I love doing it so much; I guess I just like making people suffer...**

 **Anyways! Sorry for the wait. I have a lot on my plate nowadays.**

 **Oh, I started an AO3 account, under the pseudonym KayGryffin. If you have troubles finding it, try searching for Jeg Elsker deg Ogsa; I posted it up on there. I might put this story up over there, too, but after I finish posting it here. I would like to use it for Marvel stories, once I finish the ones I've been working on, because it has far more tags than here.**

 **Thanks goes to the ever wonderful tbeth and whenthesnowmelts. My faves. If he could, Paul would give ya both a kiss for you guys continuously showing this little story love. Dedications go out to you two lovelies. **

**Thanks for reading! See you next chapter!**


	6. Crumbled Defenses

True to her calling as The Smartest Witch of Her Age, Hermione Granger instantly recognized the feeling of Apparation and, in such a situation in which she was the passenger of another wizard's Apparation, almost immediately cleared her mind, refusing to think of any sort of destination in order to avoid losing a limb or, worse, her head; though she earnestly wished she could be going home rather than going to whatever destination that George had chosen. However, once she was sure her feet were once again on steady ground and she still claimed possession over all body parts that she could physically touch, she reared back with a loud roar of, "Let me _go_ ," ripping herself from George's clutches and, on unsteady footing, stumbled back clumsily and fell into what felt to be a display. Her vision still swam, as she expected it would, and would be for a few moments longer, so _logistically_ , she knew that her behavior was not to her better detriment, however; _instinctually_ , she just did not give any fucks, so she continued to push herself away, uncaring of what she knocked over. Dimly, she remembered one time that Scabbers— _Pettigrew_ , she reminded herself with a grimace—had gotten himself stuck in Ron's trunk and, in his terror with being confined to such small quarters, had demolished six pairs of boxer briefs and an unfortunate, lone sweat sock—and, much to her dismay, she realized that _she_ felt like Scabb _Peter_ _Pettigrew_ in that situation: stuck in a box with no way out, reaping unintentional destruction.

"Her _mione_ ," she heard George mutter.

" _Stop_ ," she ordered, ever authoritative, putting a hand out in the universally recognized 'Stop Where You Stand, Weasley' symbol, her brows knitting together as she fought to regain visual focus. "Don't you come _any_ closer!"

George stopped moving, but when he spoke, he sounded pained. "'Mione, I'd never hurt you."

She gave a humorless laugh. " _Rich_ ," she spat, getting to her feet unsteadily when she felt that she had made a sufficient enough distance between herself and the Weasley boy, nearly falling back over before she managed to grab onto what felt to be a wooden cabinet; George rushing forwards before she rose a hand again to stop him.

"I said _stay_ ," she reminded him icily. Her vision was coming together now, piece by piece. It was still murky, still blurry; as if she'd opened her eyes underwater, but she was able to make things out now, as the world was no longer spinning haphazardly before her. She could make out now George's fiery red hair, (though she couldn't make out the bird's nest it currently was,) and she could see the color of George's face, (though she couldn't distinguish the unusually paleness they'd taken, his eyes murky and the dark shadows under his eyes prominent,) and she could see the small colorful clouds that had begun to amass around him (which she _could_ tell were pygmy puffs, but couldn't tell, though, how sad they all were).

"I didn't bring you here to fight," he said slowly, barely managing to hold back the small rasp that threatened at the back of his throat. He'd forgotten to eat today. He'd been forgetting to eat a lot nowadays, since Hermione had left him there on his ass in Diagon Alley. He hadn't meant to; it'd just kind of happened.

His family, for the most part, were unaware of the damage that had befallen the young man in the month that he'd been apart from Hermione so shortly after confirming her feelings, and most of that was his own fault; as he'd begun to ignore their post with renewed vigor. In fact, he'd even stopped going outside unless absolutely necessary, not wanting to chance a run-in with Hermione. If possible, in complete honesty, he wanted to see her even less than she him; as he was completely and utterly aware of the fact that she _abhorred_ him as of current and, like a coward, he'd wanted to avoid her at all cost, even to his own health. In fact, if it hadn't been for Charlie storming into the WWW about two weeks ago to chastise him for his behavior and, instead, had found George passed out on the ground, blindingly drunk and exhausted beyond measure, George would quite possibly be dead by now, which he still wasn't exactly sure he was thankful for yet.

"No, you just brought me here to ruin my life just a bit more," Hermione spat, drawing the Weasley from his thoughts with a scowl on her lips, "And I will _not_ let that happen anymore. I swear, George Weasley, once I can _see_ , I am going to hex you blind!"

George could barely chuckle. "I'd let you," he replied honestly.

Hermione paused now, her eyes still unfocused, but displaying her confusion clearly to George, giving him pause for worry. Oh, what he'd give to take a look in on that mind of hers, to see those thoughts running through her cranium.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice hushed now, thick with what he could clearly tell to be worry.

George took a step back. "Hmm?" he hummed out discordantly.

"George, your voice sounds like you haven't had a thing to drink in a few days," she said slowly, her eyes gaining focus by the second, "And you're… why are you so pale?"

George attempted to lighten the mood. "Oh, didn't you hear?" he asked, "I'm a vampire, Hermione."

"Don't be silly _now_ ," she ordered in that no-nonsense tone of hers, "Not now that I'm _worried_. What have you done to yourself, you stupid man?"

"Aren't you supposed to be hating me? What changed that sentiment?" he asked.

"The fact that you sound like Snape does," she replied.

He frowned. "Even on my worst day," he said slowly, continuing to back away, "My voice is more velvety than Snape's. I sound like a unicorn's song in comparison to Snape."

Hermione stepped forwards still, beginning to close the distance she had created, a fact he was not at all thankful for. In fact, it had anxiety rising heavy in his throat. He couldn't do this, he realized now, he couldn't confront her. He was terrified now, at this moment; terrified of the very real possibility of her final rejection, terrified that he'd destroy whatever still remained of their crumbled friendship, and he was _petrified_ that this would be the way he'd officially lose Hermione. He didn't want to have to live a life without Fred _and_ Hermione; that was the things of his worst nightmares.

Mistake.

This was a—

"Mistake," he muttered, his breath hitching as the imminent anxiety attack was beginning to rip through him. He hadn't had a full on anxiety attack for a good few months now, not since he'd lost Fred—the first he'd ever had that his brother couldn't help him through. Sometimes, he'd been jealous of Fred for this—he'd been the one born without any of the issues, like the anxiety disorder—but, then again, none had been more equipped to handle it all like Fred had, for George had always been his burden… a fact that George had always been apologetic for—that Fred had helped him his whole life and he hadn't been able to help him for his final moments. George stumbled back, falling with his back against the wall, trying to regain his breathing.

 _"In, and out, Forge, you can do it,"_ Fred would say softly, with a warm hand on his back as the tears would begin to drip _, "You'll be okay. I'm here. I'm always here. You'll be okay_ , _I promise._ "

But he wasn't okay. He hadn't been for a while now. The closest he'd gotten to being okay again had been the last time that he'd kissed Hermione. And now he was sure he'd never get to be okay again; absolutely certain of this conviction.

"G-George?" she stuttered out. _Shit_.

"Go. You…" He had to pause, had to force himself to inhale, shaking his head vigorously, "Y-You go, go if you want—you want, I know, it's okay, I don-don't mind, you can—go, i-it's fine, it's okay, you can leave, this was a mistake—it was a giant mistake!" He felt increasingly weaker, his anxiety crippling, the self-hatred and the guilt that had accumulated since Fred had left him alone beginning to ebb away at him, whispering in his ear like the sinful little evil that they were; the demons he just couldn't handle at that juncture. He began to scratch at his ear—the one that had remained. Never the one that had been cursed off, always the one that was left, for reasons he couldn't even begin to explain, his nails quickly drawing blood in scrapes none too deep, but enough in quantity for blood to drip freely within a few moments.

" _George_!" she screamed, but he was too far gone to hear it. Too far gone to see it.

Fred had told her once about George's anxiety attacks, which had come as a shock to her as Ron had been pretty straight-forward with all aspects of his family, to which he'd explained that it wasn't something George was overly fond of people knowing. The only one outside of the family to know was Lee Jordan, and it hadn't been by _choice_ ; first year Fred had gotten hit with a bludger and sent to overnight observation at the hospital wing—one of the very few nights George had ever spent a night without Fred, and it'd done a ringer on him. Apparently, according Fred, he'd wrecked the room they shared with Lee, sent through the ringer by the lack of his twin's presence, hurling curse after curse at his own possessions before he'd crumbled into a heap on the floor and started _screaming_ at himself, which had apparently terrified Lee and had him frantically running to the hospital wing, screaming for Madame Pomfrey.

Fred had sighed, she remembered, as they sat together side-by-side in the dark recesses of the library—George had been in detention that day, as he recalled,— running a hand through thick red locks. _"He's always had 'em,"_ he'd responded when she'd asked, _"Ever since we were little. Mum's never been able to calm him, though. Once, Dad managed, and Bill sometimes got him to come down, but it's always been me that could always calm him down. Maybe it's because I know who he is better than anyone ever can. I dunno. But he needs me."_ They'd been said with conviction, those words; a serious look overtaking his usually humor-rendered features. _"He_ needs _me."_

And now, he didn't have him… but he had _her_.

Without a moment to spare, Hermione leapt forwards, scrambling to get to the crumbled young man before her, wrapping her arms tight around his body as she pulled him in to lean against her own body. He was warm, too warm; as if fevered, which made sense with his unhealthily pale skin and sunken eyes. She tried her damnedest to pull his hand from his ear, trying to get him to stop _hurting_ himself, at least, but he was stronger than her, thanks to years of athletics, and ripped his arm away as if her pull was nothing. She wanted to think that George was unaware of her presence, but, if anything, she was hurting him _more_ , emotionally, by being there.

Still, she had to be. She wanted to be, needed to be; for herself and for him, because even if she _was_ pissed as all hell at him, she still loved the daft wizard before her, and would do anything for him—even jumping head-first into an anxiety attack despite knowing practically _nothing_ to counteract one, because she was an intelligent witch, if anything, and resourceful if nothing else—she could figure it out. Well, actually, she had to figure it out: George needed her to.

Despite her fear, she managed to begin to softly pet George's head, rocking him side to side like her mother had done when she'd ever had a nightmare, back when she was younger. She carded her fingers through what felt to be dirty locks of thick hair, adjusting the man in her arms so that his forehead rested against her cheek on one side and her collarbone on the other, his tears beginning to dampen the front of the nice clothes she'd worn to dinner, the murmurs of self-hatred leaving his lips in a quiet mantra that had her heart aching because she knew, _she knew_ , that she'd done _this_ to _him_ , to the man she loved, and suddenly, she felt like the worst, the bane of the universe, and she found herself with the need to rectify the situation that had started simply with George's mistake of a fucking product.

"Shhhh," she murmured softly, still rocking him side to side, "Shhhh, George, it's okay. I'm here. Just breathe, George. Just breathe. It's okay. I'm here. I'll _always_ be here, George."

" _Shut up_!" he barked now, his anxiety sparking afresh, making her jolt in surprise, having been unaware that he'd actually been listening. He grabbed at her hands, forcing her to pull away. "You're _lying_! You're lying, you're lying, you're lying, you're _lying_! You're going to leave, you are, all alone again and again and again, because you and him, him and you—you're the same—you're both the same—you'll leave me all alone again and again and again and _again_ until I finally—I can't—I won't—I don't—" He shook his head wildly, his eyelids squeezing tightly together as he pushed her away with all his might, slamming her against a wall. The back of her skull made contact first with a sickening thud, making her cry out, though he seemed to pay it no mind as he continued to mutter to himself, his hands wrapped tight around her wrists to keep her pinned to the wall; to keep her from wrapping those hands once more around him.

Hermione wanted to cry, but for his sake, she didn't—she didn't want him to be aware of just how _broken_ the pair of them were, him and her, her and him—and they were, they were both completely and utterly _fucked_ when it came to expressing outward emotions if it didn't fit into the mold they had created for themselves before Voldemort, before their innocent little lives had been ripped from them before they knew what was happening. It was a vicious little cycle they'd fit themselves into, she realized, and now she was faced with having to change it—no, _needing_ to change it. They couldn't live this way, not anymore. They couldn't continue to torture themselves anymore.

" _George_!" she screamed at him now, scaring him into letting go _just a little bit_ , just _enough_ so that she was able to lunge forwards, wrapping her arms around his neck, the pair of them falling down, George landing on his back on the hardwood floor of his own shop, his eyes wide with fear and anguish, his body still trembling with the adrenaline as his blood pumped loud in his ears. Hermione was panting, her own eyes wide with a fear of her own, but also alight with fire, determined to say her piece no matter what havoc it reaped on her already mangled life. " _George Weasley,_ listen to me _now,_ and listen _good:_ I am _never_ leaving you by choice! And Fred didn't, either!"

"You're lying," he murmured.

Her eyes flashed angrily. "You _bloody_ idiot! Fred would _never_ leave you, never have left _us_ , if he hadn't _had_ to! He didn't _choose_ to die, he was fucking _murdered_ by a goddamn _Death Eater_! He'd _never_ had a choice in it! He never woke up one day and figured it was a good day to leave _you_ , his whole goddamn fucking _world_! He loved you more than he loved his own _life_ , and it's insulting to his memory to insinuate anything else! Get this through your head _now_ , because I am _never_ saying it again: your brother _fucking loved you_!" She was crying now, she knew, but she just couldn't stop, not now. "And it's rude to say the same of _me_! Why would I _ever_ want to leave you when I'm so fucking hopelessly in love with you, you _fucking_ dolt?! Look at me, George! Do you think someone who just wanted to leave would fucking _stay_? Do you think I'd kiss you like I did in the Alley if I just wanted to _leave_ you? Who the _fuck do you think I am_?!"

Let it be said that, usually, Hermione abhorred cursing, but she recognized certain scenarios in which cursing was possibly necessary in order to truly display one's true feelings—and, in her book, _this_ moment was one of those moments.

* * *

"Why did you want to help her?" Harry asked Charlie quietly, so quietly that the dragon tamer, used to all sorts of loud roars, had almost missed it (in fact, he had; if it hadn't been for a nudge from Bill and Harry's willingness to repeat himself, he would've missed in entirely). Harry watched him with a guarded look in his beautifully expressive green eyes, pushing the broom along as he swept up the damaged remains of the dinner they'd never gotten back to eating, whilst Bill contented himself with charming the dishes to wash and the leftovers (the _salvageable_ leftovers, anyways) into storage for a later date.

Charlie arched a brow. "Because I love my brother?" he half-asked, half-stated, a bit confused.

"No, that's why you helped _George_ ," Harry said, more observant that he'd taken him for, " _Not_ why you helped Hermione. You don't even _know_ her. For all you know, she could be a psychotic control freak—well, worse of one, anyways—who would make George's life a living hell. You could've set George with another witch, any other witch, but despite the fact that Hermione's broken his heart too many times to count, you still helped _her_ get him. So, why?"

Bill whistled. "Never let it be said that our dear Mr. Potter lacks the ability of observation," he said with a chuckle.

Charlie smirked, just a bit. "Hear, hear, Wharlie," he said to his older brother, who cracked a grin at the nickname.

Harry smirked a bit himself, possibly a bit too proud of himself not to make fun of, but Charlie decided to withhold the teasing for a later time—he had a serious question to provide an answer for, and while usually, under any other circumstances, Charlie would simply talk his way out of responding to, Harry had earned the right to a response given his hand in the events that had transpired—after all, if it hadn't been for him, Granger wouldn't have even _been_ at the dinner _to_ be taken. So, pulling out his wand, he charmed the brush and can of wax (Miracle Alack's Magikal Waxes, certified against _any_ manner of magical harm, from dragon's breath to basilisk's bite) to work on the restoration of the old table, turning his complete attentions to the young Mr. Potter, who'd been as so kind as to pause in his sweeping, turning his complete attentions to the eldest two of the Weasley children. Bill, on his part, kept lazily swishing his wand around, but was by no means paying less attention than Harry.

"Harry," he said, utterly serious, "I love my brother. I really do. I, in fact, love _all_ of my siblings, living, dead, or Percy. They may be annoying, bratty, and downright vicious at times, but in the end, my siblings are unreplaceable. Each own a place in my own heart, and I would fight tooth and nail for each of them. Clear?"

Harry nodded and, though it looked like he wanted to interject—possibly to ask for the point—he didn't.

"That being said," he continued now, "Each one of them is their own special type of stupid in their own ways, when it comes to the condition of human emotions. As you know, Ron is especially ignorant to seemingly _all_ types of capable emotion on the known spectrum, unless it has to do directly with himself, and Percy is none too better, unfortunately; he simply had his good grades going for him, whereas our dear Ron had to abate on his quote-unquote good looks." Bill snorted, but otherwise remained quiet. "Ginny is no exception to this rule, but she has at least acknowledge that part of herself, so you lucked out on that front. I know for a fact that Bill spent a good year chasing his dear Fleur away before finally giving in, so he's no exception himself. And neither am I, and I won't claim to be—we're _Arthur Weasley's_ kids, after all.

"However, as bad as _we_ are, Fred and George were always a little bit _worse_ at it, and our lack of ability when it came to telling them apart was not a helpful factor. I'm not going to get into it; everyone knows that Fred and him were always pretty much the same person. And then… suddenly they weren't." Charlie paused, and then grinned. "But to Hermione, they were always different. And Hermione has _never_ had problems when it came to interpreting the expressions of the emotionally stunted, least of all with the twins. If there's anyone George needs most—it's Granger."

* * *

It'd taken George a while to calm down, but Hermione had been more than willing to wait it out, even after her confession, sitting close by with a hand on one of his knees and the other hiding the bright red heat that plagued her cheeks, the anger having ebbed away into heated embarrassment. She couldn't even _begin_ to believe her own gall! She'd been planning to confess, but _never_ in such a stereotypical fashion—Merlin, she felt like she'd walked out of a cheesy old romance book, but she had to admit… she felt pretty good about it all. Embarrassed, but… good—like finally, she'd lost herself the burden of a heavy secret, which she figured she had, in a sense.

George had muttered to himself for a bit, hurting himself still despite her words, but not to the extent that he had before. She had wanted to clean up the angry red scratches that now adorned his ear, but George wasn't yet in a state where he could be left alone. He'd smacked himself a few times, leaving the start of what looked to be an angry welt under his right eye, but other than that, he was on the mend, simply silently crying now rather than trying to speak, his face turned away from her; one of his hands weaving its fingers into the thick locks of hair, the other hand wrapped tight around Hermione's wrist with a pressure that, after the first five minutes, Hermione could barely even feel anymore. A few pygmy puffs had drifted by them, soft fluffs of fur tickling Hermione's skin as they crawled over them, one daring puff climbing up and grabbing onto Hermione's nose, with tiny claws that she couldn't even feel, the little creature squeaking and squawking at her incessantly, though rather than annoying, probably due to the cuteness of the creature, was nothing more than endlessly adorable, what with its wide eyes and fluffy fur of pastel colors.

When she felt the blush in her cheeks melt away to a manageable degree, she began to scratch the side of the little ball of creature, earning a series of delighted chirps from the little being. Despite her situation, she couldn't help but give a soft smile—they'd really created an amazing creature.

"That's Paul."

She snapped to attention, the embarrassment returning once more as she turned her head to find George now looking at her, his eyes tired and yet guarded, his usual smile nowhere to be seen on his currently frowning lips. Somehow, now, he looked weak, though the grip he had on her said otherwise.

"Paul," she said, testing the name out herself, "It fits. I like it." She looked towards the edge of her nose again, where the blurry image of Paul resided. She scratched him again. "Do you think Paul is ultimately aware of just how cute he is?"

"No, not at all. That's what makes him better," he responded.

Hermione paused for a second now. "So," she said slowly, still keeping her gaze on the pygmy puff, knowing full well that her cheeks were back on _fire_ , especially since George _still_ had yet to let go of her wrist, "Would you like to talk about it?"

"Not particularly, no."

She frowned. " _Shouldn't_ you?"

"Probably." He swallowed, dryly and audibly. At least he was nervous, too. She would hate to be the only one. "But you probably don't want to."

Her frown deepened. She stopped scratching Paul now, but she didn't dare to look toward George. "Why wouldn't I? I confessed to _you_ , George, and _I'm_ the one who asked to talk about it."

He let out a dry, sardonic, and not at all happy laugh. Paul began to grown unsettled.

"Because, Hermione," he said slowly, as if she'd lost eighty percent of her brain cells, much to her irritation, which, despite her wishes, was beginning to take control over her reactions, _until_ she heard exactly what he had to say next: "You don't _want_ to be with me."

It'd given Hermione a decent amount of pause, her mouth gaping open much like a caught fish as she finally, _finally_ , focused her eyes on the gaunt face of her dearest love, his expression that of a man who'd finally decided to let the world's injustices win out. His eyes downcast, devoid of happiness, but with a smile turned upwards to portray what he didn't feel, he looked to be the epitome of misery, his shaggy locks falling partially in front of his eyes in clumps, nearly hiding the deep sadness that loomed in the backs of irises. She wanted, in that moment, nothing more than to take his face between her hands and kiss him, kiss him until he realized just how much she felt that she needed this wizard, kiss him until he forgot his own deep insecurities, which ran far deeper than she'd ever thought possible.

She didn't do this, of course. She wasn't going to fall into complete cliché. Instead, she frowned, narrowing her eyes slightly as she began to shake her head in objection to his claims.

"And how, exactly, have you come to this conclusion, despite _my_ claims to the contrary?" she asked him. "After all… I _just_ stated my desire to be with you. Should I perhaps clarify exactly what it is I desire?" Her voice, although unintentionally, had become a low murmur by the end, almost seductively so, which (while it had escaped her notice initially) hadn't escaped George's attentions; a shiver running down his spine clearly unbidden. He bit down on his bottom lip, as if trying to stop himself from opening his mouth.

He took a shaky breath now, giving himself a few moments to rectify his thoughts, which were progressively moving in a downwards trajectory, though he _refused_ to let her know that—though he very much wanted to. In all his wildest dreams and fantasies, he'd always _wished_ that something like this would happen, but had never thought it actually could, and now that it was here, all he could do was hope it wasn't happening, simply because he was petrified of the idea of losing her too. He knew, logistically, it shouldn't be happening until death grew strong enough to even chance going after her, and he knew that he wanted to spend whatever was left of his life with her—but, for some reason, he was terrified. Ever since that day in Diagon Alley, he'd been terrified.

"Not me, I should think," he said, attempting to be cheery, but knowingly failing miserably at it. He sighed in defeat, shaking his head. "Give me a few moments. I'll return you to the Burrow in a few moments."

"No, you won't," she said, defiantly.

"Yes, I will," he retorted, albeit childishly.

She sighed now. "No, you _won't_ ," she said again, her voice becoming stronger with stubbornness; continuing before he could even think to interrupt, "Because I have no plans on going anywhere other than upstairs tonight—specifically, to your bed… with _you_."

He stopped. Literally, stopped. All thought processes ceased for a few moments before kicking back up into hyper speed, trying to completely process what it was, exactly, that she'd just said, because she _couldn't_ have said that, not really; it _must_ be his mind just playing with him, because it sounded vaguely like she'd just propositioned him to do things that she'd only done previous with Fred. And maybe Ron. Well, probably not, which was for the best. He didn't want to share with Ronnyboy anyways and _wait,_ what _exactly_ was he doing? What was he _thinking_? He couldn't—he just _couldn't_ —

"Huh?" he asked stupidly.

She rolled her eyes, partially amused now. "Well, I surely can't just leave you _now_ ," she said with a shrug. "I'd be a horrid friend if I left you alone tonight after you had an anxiety attack. The last thing you need right now, in fact, is to be left alone, so I am going to stay with you tonight, and I am going to be keeping a _careful_ watch over you—hence, I will be sleeping _with_ you in _your_ bed. And, if you try to take me away from here, I swear I will _force_ myself to splinch mid-Apparation—and before you try to argue that I can't do that, please remind yourself of this: I am Hermione Granger, and I can do _anything_ I set my mind to. So, all things considered…" She began to grin now, cheeky and all parts sexy, "You should probably lead the way upstairs. I'm _knackered_ , and you need to bathe _desperately_. There is no way I'm sleeping with a man who reeks like you do at this juncture."

George gaped at her now, no longer confused; his heart racing erratically as he beheld her, the weight of his feelings hitting him like a giant's fist. He found himself unable to argue, or really do anything that included the use of language at this point, instead numbly nodding and, with a degree of difficulty, forcing himself to get up, his hand, unwittingly, still wrapped tight around her dainty wrist.

She didn't mind at all.

The apartment was as small as she recalled it to be, having been bought for convenience rather than any other factor, as it resided right above their shop and had been capable to modify to include a door to and from the WWW. The layout was exactly the same as the last time she'd been here, down to each burn on the wooden floor from every faulty spell and charm the twins had ever cast within the walls, and, despite the smallness, felt as homely as the Burrow. It was actually a lot like it, after all—a tight space that had been worked into becoming a home for more than it should. According to twins, when they'd first bought it, the apartment had been intentioned for goblins, but due to an increase of wizards and witches of young ages wanting to live in the area, it'd been adjusted in height only so that the family of twelve goblins that could've resided within could become capable of housing just the one wizard—a nonsensical adjustment if Hermione had ever heard one, but it was just as expected of wizard society.

"Bath, now," she ordered, pointing in the general direction of his washroom.

"'Mione…" he begun slowly, tiredly.

"Hush. Go. Don't _make_ me wash you," she ordered.

He froze, and then sighed. "Yes, ma'am," he said, sullenly, walking off towards the washroom as per her orders, finally letting go of her, though he wasn't completely aware of it. She waited until she'd heard the door close lightly before she allowed herself to put a hand on her chest—as if it were going to stop the heavy beating of her heart in the wake of what she was about to do.

Out of all of her friends, Hermione was never really the impetuous one; the one who would risk it all regardless of the premise of consequence—that had always been the roll of Harry. No, Hermione was always the pinnacle of responsibility, of propriety, and while she did _pride_ herself on those facets of her personality, she also didn't wish for them to completely define her as it seemed to. That very premise had been one of the many reasons she'd fallen so hard for Fred, and then George—they'd always both been so willing to push the limits of her prim and proper attitude, and she reveled in the ability to explore her more adventurous, instinctual side—however, it seemed George had forgotten that about her.

 _Well_ , she thought as she pulled off her blouse, followed by her bra, _I shall rectify that._

* * *

 **And for the next chapter: sexy sex time.**

 **Sorry for the wait, and sorry for the abbreviated note here. Currently traveling in Europe; stopped in London for the night. Am tired but wanting to get this out here, especially since I saw Platform 9 3/4 at King's Cross today :) Bought myself Lupin's wand, as it seems that George Weasley's wand is far too much to wish for -_-**

 **Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Next one should be out soon. Thanks to all reviewers of the last chapter! Cheers!**


	7. How to Fix the Problem

He hadn't washed in a while, admittedly—it'd been a couple of days since the thought had even crossed his mind—but he didn't think he smelled _that_ badly, to be completely honest, but then again, he _had_ spent quite a lot of time get used to the scent of his own odor, so he paid heed to her orders. It hadn't taken long for the bath to fill up at all, and he found himself, in no time at all, sitting in the basin, scrubbing his scalp to rid himself of all the oils and dirt that had accumulated over the time from his last bath. He had to admit, the bubbly soap felt pretty good against his skin as he rid himself of what he assumed to be layer upon layer of grime. Soon, he found his skin to be turning bright pink from all the washing, and he contented himself to just relax in the basin for just a bit longer, as the warm water felt like a dream against his flesh. It wouldn't go cold for a while yet, not until he released the charm he'd casted, and so he allowed himself to relax without worry, fully aware that, to a small degree, he was stalling.

He wanted to go out there to see her, but at the very same time, he wasn't exactly sure what he could say at this juncture. He'd thought his condition would turn her away, but it seemed to work to exactly the opposite effect, much to the delight that he wanted desperately to suppress. He was feeling a motley of emotions at this time, most of all fear, and he believed that he couldn't let them show, not anymore. No, he had to toughen up, hadn't he? Put back on that grin and speak those funny words to lull her into the belief that he was perfectly okay, despite that he wasn't, so that they can go back to the semblance of normalcy.

All in all, he had decided, the night had been a mistake. He'd thank Charlie and them for their efforts, in some way (because George Weasley could never be caught _dead_ saying an outright thanks to _anyone_ , no way, no how), but, ultimately, he felt it best to just stop _trying_. He was hurting her more and more in the long run, anyways, if he kept this nonsense up; he had to let these silly feelings of his go—and who knew; they'd be alright somewhere down the line, right?

So he contented himself with the knowledge that he was going to let her go.

Which, of course, came before she joined him in the bath.

He hadn't noticed her come into the room, having been so caught up in his thoughts, and possibly wouldn't even had noticed her get in the bath if it weren't for the fact that she'd brushed against him to fit herself in. The tub was really not on the large side—barely fitting George himself in it—and her squeezing inside caused some of the water to flow over, a density property that George had never learned the sciences of in school, but was well aware meant he had even less space to escape her in. His eyes, formerly shut, snapped open as his synapses short-circuited as he caught a look of the heated gaze Hermione was sending his way, doing his best to ignore the sheer nudity that was present in the opposing party sitting before him.

"'Mione?" he rasped out, confused and conflicted.

Hermione gave him what she hoped to be a sweetly seductive smile (which was really more snarky, and utterly her, so it achieved the latter objective of seduction) as she attempted to make herself more comfortable, though it seemed to be damn near impossible in the constrained space that was George's tub—really, how did such a tall man even _fit_ himself in here in the first place? It was a miracle in and of itself, really, one that truly just can't even be expressed by words.

"Georgie," she responded, arching one brow, still smiling away.

George gaped at her, doing his very best to keep his eyes on her face and _not_ trying to look towards the water where he knew her breasts to be. She couldn't help but feel a bit amused at the timid virgin act George was putting up—it was _adorable_.

"What are you _doing_?" he managed to ask with a degree of difficulty, sputtering as he spoke.

She shrugged. "Taking a bath. I'm allowed, I hope."

"Shouldn't you… y'know, _wait_ until I've gotten _out_ of it?"

"Where would be the fun in that?"

George swallowed dryly, heat smoldering in the back of his eyes. "I… you…"

Her smile widened just a tad. "Well, I don't think I've ever seen you as lost for words as I have tonight. It's just a series of first encounters of a second nature with you this evening, isn't it? I must say, it's delightfully exciting."

He was shaking his head. "Stop playing with my emotions, Hermione…" he murmured lowly.

"I'm not playing with anything," she responded, jutting her chin out just a tad before humming out, "Not now, anyways. Soon, I expect, and for possibly many more times than just tonight, if you'll let me." She sighed, her smile slipping the slightest. "George, I have no idea how many ways I have left to express what I feel for you, feelings that I know you reciprocate in turn, so may I ask: what's so bloody difficult about you and I taking what we want?"

George stared at her for a moment before looking away, sadly.

"'Cause you don't want _me_ ," he mumbled, "You want Fr—"

"Wrong," she interrupted before he could even finish.

"Right," George argued. "I kissed you first, remember? And you hadn't…"

"Hadn't kissed you back?" she asked, smile now completely gone, replaced with an upset frown. She moved forwards, making George stiffen in place as she shuffled and squeeze so that she could move between his legs, a space which hadn't been too expansive to begin with, moving out of the water just a bit so that it only touched the tip of her breasts, which he didn't _dare_ look down at. She pressed a hand against his chest, the other on his neck, her eyes soft and imploring. Dimly, he hoped that she couldn't feel how fast his heart was beating right now.

"George, I didn't kiss you back because it _wasn't_ you," she said softly, her eyes filled with sadness. "Not because I wanted Fred still. True, I still possess feelings for Fred, but those aren't going to just fade, and I'm not going to pretend like we have a chance. But I also possess feelings for you… feelings stronger than what I ever felt for Fred." She gave him a soft-lipped smile. "But I didn't want to kiss you then, because you weren't you. I don't wish to kiss anyone who isn't you, George. I am in love with you, you idiot." She leaned her forehead against his. "I am so in love with you that I, in effect, become something of an idiot myself—and don't let that get to your head."

George couldn't help but chuckle, finally allowing himself to lift his hands to touch her. She jolted at first—having not expected it—but instantly calmed down, relaxing under his touch as his larger hands touched her supple skin, pressing and tickling as they moved, familiarizing himself with the contours of her body.

"Granger," he said softly, "Are you suggesting I might have a snowball's chance in hell with you?"

"Weasley," she said, just as gentle, "Snowballs do not have any chances in hell, if such a thing existed. In fact—"

"You're missing the point," he groaned, "And this isn't _school_ , Granger dearie. Please stop trying to infect me with your _knowledge cooties_."

She giggled. "Well, someone's nearly back to their old self," she observed.

"Nothing readjusts a man like the promise of getting some—"

"Say any vulgar way of phrasing 'vagina' and there will be _none_ in your nearest futures, George Weasley," she warned, tone suddenly icy and sharp, though she smiled despite it.

George shrugged. "I've already gotten more than I could've asked for already, 'Mione, the sex is really just an additive bonus." He pulled her in closer now, readjusting her so she rested almost entirely upon him, allowing himself to slide a bit more into the water. "But, just so you know, there is no way you're getting out of sex at this point. I mean, you've got your tits on my chest."

She hummed. "I don't hear anything that requires intercourse," she said, running a finger down the side of his neck in a gentle, barely-felt caress that had a shiver running down George's spine.

He shook his head. He could feel himself growing hard now, his heart pumping with anticipation. "No, I don't think you're getting out of this now, Granger," he groaned, tightening his grip.

"Oh, I'm not?" she said with a quiver in her voice.

He shook his head. "No, not at all. In fact, if I wasn't of the right mind, I would take you right now," he said quietly before adding, "However…"

She waited a few moments, but George seemed otherwise concerned with his analysis of her body's curves—knowing that, of all people, she was the least capable of handling a hanging statement like that. It was such an evil, cruel act for him to pull, in Hermione's opinion, but she found herself nonetheless amused and, in actuality, _aroused_ by it rather than annoyed.

So, with a trembling voice, she asked, "However…?"

He couldn't suppress the grin. "However," he said, "This tub is really rather small… and my bed is definitely crafted more for the thought of comfort. As an added bonus, I rather think I'd look better if I were not in the process of pruning."

She couldn't help but laugh.

"Well, the reasons you brought up are sound," she said, "Lead the way, Weasley."

"I'd be happy to, Granger."

* * *

Hermione was a screamer.

George really hadn't been expecting it, but somehow, it hadn't startled him much when she'd started barking orders at him, her cries loud and wanting as he licked a long trail from the tip of her clit to the edges of her lower lips, his fingers playing in the tight wet heat that was her womanhood; her hands occupying themselves by grabbing at his hair and pulling—none too hard, but enough for him to groan at the sensation. Her body trembled under the firm grip he had on her trim hip, outlining her inadvertent struggle against her own orgasm in the wake of the pleasure wrought out by George's skilled tongue: a reaction he was elated with, a small smirk upon his lips, which was accompanied by a certain twist from the three fingers within her that had her, once again, _screaming_.

"George, George, George, _George_ ," she sobbed in mantra, her head twisting from side to side as she felt herself to begin to lose the little control she'd possessed. This was, hands down, the _best_ sexual encounters she'd ever been as so fortunate to have, a fact that she was _refusing_ to let out. Not that it would be bad to boost George's ego—from what she'd learned this night, his ego could do with a bit more bolstering, if anything—but because she was just too prideful to admit it.

He hummed in response, and, having wrapped his lips around her clit beforehand, nearly made her orgasm right then and there. However, she didn't want to just cum anytime—although the female body _was_ capable of multiple orgasm…

"More, George, _more_ ," she begged, letting one hand loose of his hair only to grab at the fabric of the pillow under her head, her back arching upwards, her nipples pert and needy. She wanted this more than she'd been aware of initially, and now that it was here, she just couldn't hold herself back—nor did she want to. Of course, at this juncture, she wasn't even really sure _what_ it was she wanted anymore; George's skilled fingers having worked her mind near void, but she just knew that she wanted _more_ , just more. It was left open to interpretation for George.

He let go of her hip now, that free hand working upwards to tweak a hard nipple while he gently sucked her clit out of its hood, her nerves alight as he began to lick in earnest now, his lower lip stroking a region of her she knew not could be so pleasurable. The hand she'd fisted in the pillow now flew to her chest, playing with the regrettably ignored nipple in George's stead as her heels dug into George's back; thighs flexing as she fought to remain in control of herself.

George removed his lips for a second, a gasping cry leaving Hermione's lips as he substituted tongue for the pad of his thumb, pressing and gently rotating against her, his other fingers still working to pleasure her the same as they had before. She struggled to look at him, her eyes half-lidded and threatening to close, her lips gaping as they let out struggling little breaths. He smirked at her, his eyes twinkling with what she could barely manage to interpret as amusement.

"Enjoying yourself, 'Mione?" he asked huskily.

"G-Get your mouth back where it was," she panted out, "I much rather it t-there."

"Hmm? Is that so?" he hummed at her, arching a brow before lowering his head to kiss at her hip; the one he'd been gripping before.

"Y— _esssss_ ," she hissed out as he twisted his fingers again, this time pairing it with a harsh twist of her nipple.

He continued to smirk as he pressed kisses onto her hips and abdominal region, amused by her pleasure-addled state. "Hmm, but my lips are getting tired," he argued cheekily, "And I _do_ wish to try with a much more _pleasurable_ appendage of mine."

Her eyes widened a tad. "O-Oh," she said, trying so hard to hold back that moan that George knew she wished to let go, "Is that so?"

He moved upwards now, away from her belly, carefully shrugging off her legs and pressing a gentle kiss onto the sore nipple he'd been twisting and tugging all this time before moving so that his chest pressed against hers, removing his fingers from within her so he could snake his hands around her body; the digits wet with her need tangling themselves into frizzy curls. She struggled to catch her breath, her body too tense with desire and agony to respond to her attempts to regain the semblance of order—not that George was going to let her. He began to gently rock his hips against hers, his cock—hard and hot—rubbing against her inner thigh; the sensation making her whine with lust, her legs opening just the slightest more. He grinned down at her, not so much in amusement now, but rather in delight. He had her where he wanted her, and they both knew it.

"It is so," he whispered, moving one hand down to grip her right butt cheek; a shock running through her.

She stared up at him, her brown eyes wide as she searched George's face with a contemplative expression overtaking her features before, surprisingly, she smirked devilishly, catching George off-guard for an instant, which was more than long enough for her to flip them over. He now lay on his back, his arms still around her body, still pressed chest-to-chest with her, but she seemed to desire to change their position. Giving him a heated kiss before untangling her fingers from his ginger locks, she placed her hands on his chest, pushing up to gain some distance between their faces; pressing her lower lips against George's pelvis, his cock touching the cheeks of her ass. She rocked against him, pressing against him to pleasure herself and, inadvertently, him as well, with each downwards motion of her ass against his cock. He groaned, eyes rolling back due to pleasure from the contact of her skin on his dick, his hands sliding down her body to tightly grasp at her butt, fingernails biting into skin. She winced, but the pain was not enough to stop her movements, in fact; they encouraged them. He began to move with her now, wanting her to cum; pressing up against her hard with each downward motion she made. She moaned softly, removing a hand from her chest to grasp at her own breast, massaging it in time with her rhythm. George knocked her hand away within moments; grabbing at her breast in her stead, massaging it more frantically than she had, and just a tad bit tighter, as well; with just as much pressure as she desired as she began to move faster now, keeping a hand on George's chest to keep herself steady (or, relatively so).

She was beginning to moan again, her cries gaining volume as they persisted in their movement, pressure budding like a tightening coil in her belly as she came closer and closer to her orgasm, her hand grasping onto George's arm as if it were a lifeline; the famously expansive mind of Hermione Granger becoming startling blank as she bucked against the man she loved, as the man she loved bucked back against her, his breathing heavy and body alight with fire, feeling a glorious sort of agony as he denied himself his own desire to cum. He watched her with adoring eyes, watching intently as she began to fall apart above him, her cries of pleasure becoming unintelligible sobs as she begged him, pleaded with him, _prayed_ to him; skin glistening with small beads of sweat from exertion and warmth, the hand on her chest removing itself from him to move instead to the junction of her thighs, aiding herself in getting off. With a low growl, he forced her up with a harsh tug from the hand attached to her ass, swatting her hand away before attacking her swollen center with his tongue, lashing at it harshly to drive her closer and closer. She screamed louder, her body trembling around his head, her words becoming nothing but nonsensical gibberish as she thrust against his mouth.

"More—George—oh, _Merlin_ , help me—oh!" she screamed, no longer knowing what to do with herself as she neared the brink of an orgasm she was sure had no comparison. Wet slurps accompanied her cries as George worked her, sucked at her, teased her, pleasured her; his tongue mapping out the entirety of a region he was sure he would soon become intimately familiar with, his hand now moved so that his palm rested against the sodden lower lips of his beloved Granger, an index finger rubbing against her anus; not too much to penetrate, but enough to drive her insane.

"Please, no, George, no, Merlin, George—no! Please, no! Oh, no!" she was saying.

He removed his mouth from her for a moment, making her sob openly now, and he looked up at her. "No, George, what?" he asked, quirking a brow, still rubbing that finger against her asshole, "No, George… this?"

Before she could even _think_ to reply as to exactly what 'this' was, George's mouth was back on her, sucking so hard at her clit that she was brought to a shuddering orgasm, screaming his name with abandon as she rode out the overwhelming waves of pleasure, tears dripping down her face in reaction to the immensity of the feeling. Her entire body shook, her chest heaving as she fought to catch a breath, her muscles taut with her release. George held her all the way through it, nose still brushing against her abused clit as she dripped in reaction to his efforts, grinning cockily to himself as he prided himself in what he had done. His hand, which had found a place on her hip, rubbed her gently, coaxing her through it, waiting patiently until her scream had subsided into a moan, and from a moan into heaving pants. Once he felt her ready, he adjusted her, sliding out from underneath her and laying her boneless body down onto the bed, belly pressed against the mattress.

" _George_ ," she whimpered now, her eyes looking towards him.

He grinned at her. "Do you need time?" he asked gently, moving so that he laid down beside her, a hand running up and down her back, watching her carefully.

" _George_ ," she said again, unable to think to say anything else. Language was escaping her at this moment in time.

He chuckled. "I'll imply that means _yes_ ," he said with affection and adoration clearly present in his tone. He adjusted her legs carefully, sliding them underneath the blankets before pulling it up to her hips, sliding himself under the sheets only just a moment later. He pulled her against him, doing his best to ignore his erection, focusing instead upon the witch beside him, dotting her shoulder with kisses as she fought to regain intelligent thought. It honestly didn't matter to him whether he fucked her tonight, not really; just being with her was more than enough for him.

That being said… he didn't exactly argue with her when she wrapped a hand around his cock and began to stroke.

" _'Mione_ ," he couldn't help but groan, hands tightening around her body as she gave a small hum in response; still rendered unable to work her tongue into formulating words, but aware enough to have felt the hardened length that had been pressed against her bare right thigh. The skin was so smooth under the palm of her hand, so soft; like that of an infant's (though she was not going to muse that thought while she was trying to bring George to orgasm). She managed to get her leg over his lap, mounting him once more, forcing herself into an upright position so she could work him properly. His breathing became heavy as he watched her, his hands fisting into the fabric of the blankets, as if he desired for some sort of anchor, like she had before in the dim memory of grabbing his arm.

She smiled at him, feeling control come to her as she wrenched it from George, taking the first initial moments to familiarize herself with his body, as he had with hers; figuring out _just_ what George wanted in order to bring him to the brink. She found that he rather liked it when she twisted her hand on an upwards stroke, as well as when she rubbed her thumb pad against the slit on the head of his cock. Little, innocuous things that made a huge difference in the long run, and what ultimately encouraged her to wrap her lips around his cock.

Which, for George, felt a little bit like the world had stopped spinning for just a few moments, as Hermione took him into the wet warmth was her mouth. She only had taken in the head of his cock, but that was enough to have his lungs rendered unable to take in oxygen, and suddenly, he had about as much as he could handle. He didn't want to cum now, in Hermione's mouth—as delightful an idea that sounded, regrettably—he had far more plans for the rest of the night. So, weaving one hand into the locks of her hair, he pulled her up, bringing her red lips towards his so he could press a hard kiss upon them.

"But… George," she finally managed to say, a hand on his prick still.

He shook his head. "No, not now. Now's time for something else." He kissed her again, a bit gently this time, with his tongue sweeping across her plump lower lip, which opened to allow him access, which he greedily took, deepening the kiss at her allowance. He allowed himself to be lost in the kiss, whilst the hand on his cock began to stroke once more, his hips moving just the slightest bit with desire, which he can't help due to the fact that Hermione Granger had this habit of being utterly amazing at whatever she happened to attempt, save for flying on a broomstick, and if you give her a few moments, she can become a professional in no time at all, which, by now, she surely was, if the tell-tale tightening in his groin was telling him anything. He pulled away from the kiss because of the tightening, giving her a look that had her toes curling.

"Get on your belly, Granger," he ordered in a thick voice that she couldn't help but obey, her fingers quivering as she moved to lay on her belly, just like he'd asked. Grinning to himself, he ran a hand down the middle of her back, from her shoulder blades down to her tailbone, her body arching under his touch, as if pulled by some sort of magnetic attraction. She was malleable, he decided, able to form into whatever position he so desired. So he adjusted her—putting his hands on her hips, he pulled her upwards, so that her pert ass was in the air, and that her breasts were pressed against the mattress, half of her face buried in the pillow.

"George," she whispered, voice slightly muffled by the pillow.

"So perfect," he whispered in way of response, peering down in wonder at her breathtaking body with a reverence similar to a man praying to a god. She couldn't help but blush in reaction to George's admiring eyes, her breathing kicking up the slightest with speed. He moved his hand so it slid between the two cheeks of the ass he was becoming obsessed with; his fingers rubbing against the damp heat that had her, once again, whimpering.

He moved to position himself behind her, a hand resting on her waist as his heart's beating kicked up rapidly, feeling, honestly, trepidation creeping on in the wake of what he was planning to do—because, as much as he might've dreamed it, he never imagined he'd really be here, about to fuck Hermione Granger senseless.

So long he'd been caught in his thoughts, Granger had begun to grow impatient, squirming beneath him in such an enticing way that he truly hadn't noticed her struggle. Hermione, whom as not quite fond of being ignored (as she never had been), pushed herself up by her hands, twisting around so she could get a good look at the ridiculously blank and intense ogling gaze that George had upon his face, and, while amused, she, however, was growing rightly frustrated by the lack of sex after coming so closely to it. And so, frustrated as she was, she shot George her best try at an indignant glare (as well as she could; being as unfocused as she was, her hand wouldn't even stand on end like it usually did when she found herself frustrated), and put a hand on his, allowing a shock of magic to leave her fingertips in order to startle him into awareness.

"Bloody—fucker—" George gasped in surprise, yanking his [burnt] hand away before looking at Hermione, the look on her face giving him pause (for good reason, it wasn't a pleasant look). "Love?"

"Firstly… I require a better name than 'love,'" Hermione began lowly, threateningly; with a sickly sweet smile upon her lips, "Secondly, George Weasley… please, for a moment, remove your eyes from my bottom, and perhaps you may be allowed to replace it, instead, with your cock. You have business to attend to."

His mouth went utterly dry. "Y… Anal?" he asked dumbly.

She giggled, though her eyes still spoke of irritation. "I assume I'd like to give it a go, however, if you do not proceed in a timely fashion with the typical means of penetration, you might not get the chance!"

He nodded vigorously, his eyes so wide that Hermione couldn't help but, again, giggle. "Right. Okay. I am hearing you, and I am… I am definitely on the same page," he said quickly, haphazardly, before he grinned cheekily. "Oi, woman, what're you doing with your head up. Put it back into the pillow. I don't want the neighbors to get a fright when you begin to scream."

She blushed, but remained cheeky, saying, "Well, if you'd just proceed to _fuck_ me, perhaps— _Merlin_!" The last part had been released as a gasp, a rather surprised gasp at that, as (in the moments that Hermione had begun to once again berate her newfound lover,) he had proceeded to _finally_ plunge into her, moving all the way in one stroke, his pelvis pressed against the cheeks of her ass. She moaned wantonly, her arms shaking as she took in the full pleasure of being filled by him, while he closed his eyes in rapture; the warm tightness of her wanton heat feeling him with an utter delight.

"Don't think of Merlin," he hissed out, his grip tight on her right hip while he reached forwards with his left hand, grabbing at a tit and harshly massaging it; a loud cry escaping her lips in response, "It's only me, 'Mione, only me. Say it's only me, 'Mione. I want to hear you say it. I want you to remember that as I fuck you." She gasped at his words, shaking her head in the overabundance of pleasure. George growled now, due to lack of response, and so he pulled his hips back, slowly, carefully, before snapping them forwards, filling her once more after long breaths of leaving her mostly bereft. She let out a scream in response, and he found himself smirking now as he repeated the movement.

" _George_!" she screamed.

"Say it," he growled at her, watching her tremble as he continued the process of slowly pulling out to only harshly snap back in, "I want to hear you say it. I want you to remember whose you are, Granger. I want you to realize whose cock this is in your tight little cunt… and then I'll fuck you how I want. I'll fuck you _hard_. I'll fuck you until you're begging for it to be over. Until you've cum so many times you'll forget how to properly how to cast a spell." She yelped again, but she wasn't of the right mind to be able to refute George's (frankly improbable) statement. "And then, perhaps, I'll let up," he continued, still on with the delicious, and yet wholly frustrating, motions that he'd adopted for the moment, "But you'll only get that… once you say it's only me who is, and will ever be, _fucking you_. Say it, and I'll give you everything I've promised you and more." He draped himself over her, pulling out almost to the very tip of his dick, his breath heavy on his shoulder as he began to suck on her skin, her body quivering with desire and need. He managed to hold himself, not moving a single bit as he whispered, authoritatively:

" _Say it._ "

"Fuck me!" Hermione screeched now, her need outweighing her pride by tonnes, "Fuck me hard, George, until I'm begging for you to stop, until I've forgotten how to use magic! Everything you said, George! Fuck me, please! I need you to fuck me, George! Fuck me before I explode!"

"Who is the only one who will be fucking you, Granger?"

" _You!_ "

"No one else?"

" _Never,_ " she sobbed, tears dripping from her eyes in frustration. She tried to push back against him, in an attempt to slide him further inside, but he pulled himself back, intent on keeping only the tip of himself in until he was wholly satisfied. "Never anyone else, only you, only you, George. You're the only one who will ever fuck me; you're the only one I'll ever want to fuck me. Please fuck me hard, George."

George smirked. She could almost feel it on her hyper-sensitive skin.

"Well," he drawled, "What kind of man would I be if I denied my witch her most sincere wish?"

And, with that as her only warning, he snapped his hips forwards, sheathing himself within her, and she nearly saw _stars_.

* * *

Things, from then on in, had improved drastically.

The miniature civil war that had divided the family had virtually disintegrated the moment that George had shown up back in the Burrow the very next day, a flushed and evidently well-fucked Hermione in tow, their hands clasped together in a display of their newfound relationship and solidarity and, although Molly had herself a few choice words to say about George's behavior those past few weeks, had been met with nothing but happiness. Even Percy was delighted by the development, but probably because the Weasley family lacked the sanity of intelligence and Hermione was a welcome reprieve for him; but the statement still stood that [arguably] the most emotionally retarded Weasley child had been rendered happy by the romance of two young peoples.

Ginny, of all, was the most delighted, as it made the fact that Harry had finally worked up the courage and had asked for her hand in marriage all the more amazing, and, in the wake of all the romance, had even Ron crying with pure delight (and slight loneliness; he momentarily wished that he weren't so woefully single), whilst Arthur just grinned like a moron at all of his children. Charlie and Bill had simply clapped each other on the back for having orchestrated such a feat, and in an expression of his joy, Charlie laid one hell of a sloppy kiss on Harry Potter's unsuspecting lips; much to the amusement of his new fiancé, who giggled like a moron as Harry had squawked indignantly; whilst Bill merely shook his head, snorted the word 'children' derisively, and walked away to pour himself a shot of firewhiskey—though he wished his brother a more reserved congratulations, while had George keeled over with choking laughs while Hermione rolled her eyes and smiled, fondly, at the amusing responses of the family as a whole.

The amount of time that Hermione had spent from the Burrow had decreased; almost to the point that she had seriously considered actually moving in to the Weasley family home, a fact that Molly had been more than pleased with (and Harry, by annexation). However, ultimately, she made the decision not to—not because of her personal feelings of adding burden upon Molly and Arthur's shoulders, what with their multitude of [adult] children still leeched off of them for food and shelter and their lack thereof of such provisions, but because she made the ultimate decision that it simply wouldn't do if they'd _heard_ her during her and George's sessions of love-making. And, so, with that in mind, she kept her apartment and looked into stronger, long-lasting sound-proofing charms and spells for such occasions, whilst George virtually moved in; keeping his place above his shop for _just in cases_. All the while, the ultimate plan was that, after she finished her last year (though he really didn't think she needed to go back to Hogwarts for an [unofficially] eighth year), they find a place all their own to live, out of wizarding London—perhaps in the farmlands, maybe close to the Burrow, or maybe far; it didn't matter when one could floo or Apparate.

However, neither of them were very focused on this plan of theirs; they knew they had time. They had other things to focus on—George dove into his business nearly full-time, determined to get it back to its former pre-war glory, and Hermione began to prepare herself for her [unnecessary] schooling and her intentions to change the wizarding world; and these things took energy that had them exhausted, but happy. It was the beginning to their very own futures, and if the war had taught them a thing, it was that they had to treasure the moments spent in the journey towards their forever.

It came not without difficulty. They'd nearly broken up over a stupid argument derived from the fact that George had missed her deeply while she was at school and had felt that she had begun to lose interest in him, but Ginny had aided in getting them back on track. They had their fights and feuds, and more than once Hermione had hexed him into developing a horrid case of puss-filled boils on his back and face (and _down there_ , but George never told anyone that), but those, in time, they had moved on from, not always with make-up sex, but with, indeed, loving promises to think more before accidentally giving their significant other the orange sides _only_ of a batch of Puking Pastilles instead of actual orange candies (for example), or to remember pre-established date nights and maybe making it a point to at least have some sort of alarm set up to ensure presence instead of leaving your significant standing like idiot in the middle of one of London's most costly restaurants while you were simply at home reading yet another book (again, for example). George's anxieties, as well, proved a troubling factor—it wasn't as if they'd just faded. No, his anxiety was a condition he'd been dealing with all his life, and they were as much a part of him as his propensity for pranking, and so Hermione simply made it her business to learn what to do in order to remind him that she loved him, and that she was never just going to _leave_ him; she learned how to hold him, how to speak to him, how to breathe with him—the few little things she was capable of doing to make him see the truth. She didn't let the anxiety chase her away, and she didn't let him believe that it could; which was all he needed from her.

They weren't perfect people. They were covered with jagged edges and coarse cuts, and filled with insecurities and oddities that would make the standard person run away screaming. They had been broken, fixed, broken and fixed again; over and over in a never-ending repeating cycle called life. They weren't perfect, neither of them, but they were happy—they finally, after all, had one another, and that was more than either of them could ever think to ask for.

And, about two and a half years later, they found themselves even happier than before—who knew a missed menstrual cycle would lead way to such a gift?

* * *

 **Yeah, so... you guys were gifted with the misfortune to have an irresponsible author who can't hit their own deadline to save their fucking life. Apologies. But... at least it got here? Right?**

 **There's an epilogue. I'll try to update this soonish in response. Hopefully the sexy sex times are up to par.**

 **Also, on AO3 I'm on under a similar pseudonym, KayGryffin (no spaces, basically). I uploaded _Jeg_ , and I'm currently in the process of uploading a short story for the MCU called _You're Stuck With Me Now, Tony Stark_. Give it a gander for me? Maybe I'll upload it here if I think it'll do well. **

**Thanks go out to filmdork and xXMizz Alec VolturiXx for reviewing :) Always makes my day to see that people like this lil' tale of mine. **

**R &R and, in case I don't update it by then, enjoy your Labor Day! **


	8. The Corny, Picture-Perfect Ending

"Hermione, please take it _careful_ ," Ron said, his face contorting in pain as he attempted to jog up the hill after the curly-haired woman, slipping and sliding in the icy snow despite her lack thereof the same difficulty. Still, he called out to his best friend with nothing but concern in his tone, "You've got to take things _carefully_!"

Hermione turned around, simply so that Ron could see the roll of her eyes.

"For God's sake, Ronald, I'm _pregnant_ , not _disabled_ ," she huffed irritably, unaware of the hand she rested upon her bulging stomach, her cheeks red from the exertion and cold.

Despite the fact that he, personally, was actually in agreement with Ron in this case, George had learned long before that there was no possible way for him to dissuade Hermione from doing what she willed, as she was stubborn when she _wasn't_ pregnant—with child; she was a force of reckoning, and so George, whom was far too used to arguments he wasn't going to win, simply reached out and clapped his youngest brother on the shoulder, shaking his head.

"No point, mate," George said in a hoarse whisper, "Let her tire herself out. I'll simply have to carry her back."

Hermione, whom was not far enough not to hear him, glared at her love.

"I was also not rendered _deaf_ ," she snapped at them before she turned around with an angry grunt, continuing up the steep hill, her snow boots pushing through the snow with a small degree of difficulty. The snow was really piling up this season, and even now, it was snowing; snowflakes getting caught in the tangle of hair that cascaded from her thick, sloppily hand-knitted pink hat (courtesy of Ginny). Her hands, covered in thick gloves, were placed atop her stomach, in which George was more than aware that his child developed within her.

George couldn't help but chuckle, shaking his head again, this time in amusement.

"My darling," he crooned, earning himself a stiff middle finger thrown over her shoulder, making him chortle.

Ron sighed. "She's going to pop," he argued still.

Ginny laughed. "At this point, that's all she wants," she said cheerily, "The baby is already a week late, Ron."

"Not uncommon," Bill chipped in with a smirk of his own, one arm draped around Fleur, the other supporting the baby Victoire, whose blonde locks were hidden under the thick woolen layers that her loving paternal grandmother had docked her with before daring to allow the baby out of her doors. She gurgled happily, however, apparently more than aware of the happiness of her surrounding family, her hands waving like some sort of marshmallow creature. Fleur grinned happily at her daughter, rubbing her fabric-covered cheek with a gloved finger.

"George an' Fred were weeks late themselves," Charlie chirped from behind Bill, poking at Harry's ass cheekily while the younger wizard carried the toddler Teddy Lupin upon his shoulders, who wore not nearly as many layers as the youngest Weasley in attendance, but still a heavy amount to his godfather's own worrying tendencies. Teddy had his hands wrapped up in Harry's messy bed of hair, which the man hadn't even bothered to cover with a hat, as he'd known his godson would simply just removed the hat and proceeded to tangle his pudgy little fingers in his hair anyways.

"Caused Mum and Dad quite the headache," Percy noted before adding, "As I've been told." He'd come straight from the Ministry to meet them—he'd even left work early for a change. He'd really begun to try harder as of the past few years, when it came to his family, something George really appreciated. He wanted his own little one to have a closeness with all of her—or his, but he was really holding out for a little girl here; he was really in love with the idea of a little girl with Hermione's face—family.

Ron shrugged.

"Still," he contested stubbornly, but didn't continue the thought, as he began to jog after Hermione when he lost sight of her at the top of the hill, slipping and sliding around in the snow that no others had difficulty navigating through, his thick furry, ear-covering hat nearly coated with snow by the time he got to the top, shouting Hermione's name as he went, cursing her all the while. Whilst his anxiety would lead him towards the belief that, perhaps, Ron still possessed romantic feelings for his witch, he knew better. Ron and Hermione had the closeness of siblings with a love to match, and so George knew that any concern he was exhibiting was purely one simply to keep her safe and her baby from harm, which George appreciated more than he let on.

The rest of the clan took their time in their trek up the hill, seeing no reason to rush whatsoever. What they were going to see wasn't about to start moving, anyways.

It was a small tradition that the younger Weasleys had begun only two years before, in the winding days of the calendar year, in which they'd arm themselves with presents and wine and flowers and trek up the hill about a half-mile away from the Burrow, up to the little spot at its top where they had chosen to bury Fred rather than at the spot offered for him in Godric's Hollow amongst the heroes of Gryffindor, as it was a space that Fred and George and all of their siblings had often found themselves to play during long afternoons free of chores. With the Burrow in sight to the south, and the grassy lands over their childhood home all around, it was a place that had been the only logical option. That hill had represented an expansive world, for them; beyond that of their home, bringing to their lives freedom and a chance of adventure—why not bury him there, so he could be in such a place always?

Fred's headstone was simple beyond compare, and yet adequately fit his personality with the inscribing of some of the words of the twins' childhood heroes—of course, the Marauders. George couldn't help but let his fingers drift across the inscribing of his brother's full name that stretched across the top half of the dark grey rock of his headstone, smiling fondly now. He still missed him, every single day, but every single day, that hurt left in his wake faded just the slightest bit. He knew it'd be years, maybe a whole century before the hurt completely faded, but it was just enough now that he could smile despite his sadness. Hermione, whom had, of course, gotten there well before him, put a hand on George's shoulder, having done virtually the same thing; tears in her own eyes as she looked at the grave.

Before long, the little hilltop was crowded with voices; talking at their Fred as they told them about their year, about the happenings of that year, about Dad's promotion at the Ministry, about Mum's newest ranting. All were in various states of happy and sad alike, as they all missed their brother dearly, but all having grown enough to know that they couldn't mourn him forever. It was true that he had been stolen from them far too early, but it was also true that he'd lived for himself a full life already, and, not only that, had loved them as they loved him. They weren't happy that he was gone, really—but had grown to accept it as best as they could, and were making do with the best they could—as they only could, and had almost all their respective lives.

George watched his family with affectionate eyes, watching as Ginny and Harry talked to Teddy about Fred, watching as Fleur and Bill showed the curious little Victoire the headstone of her late uncle, watching as Charlie and Ron laughed together whilst Percy stood awkwardly beside them with a happy grin upon his face—he watched not to see, but to _feel_ , to remember the moment for all its glory and to never let it go. He refused to let his life become a batch of missed moments and forgotten memories—he couldn't afford to; not when he had stories to tell Fred when he, himself, joined him one day, as they all would, in the eternity that would await.

Hermione wrapped an arm around George.

George smiled down at her and squeezed back.

"If he's a boy, we name him Fred," she said. A running reminder between them, as they'd decided not to learn the baby's gender as of yet, preparing themselves with a cache of names for both cases already. If it were a boy, there was not a doubt in either of their minds that their boy was being named for his late uncle. They simply just liked to say it to the other.

"If she's a girl, we name her Fred," he replied.

She wrinkled her brow, smiling anyways. "Fred's not a good name for a little girl."

"We'll make it work," he said easily, grinning before saying, "You know, there's a good chance that we could end up with twins. Runs in the family, if you'll recall."

She groaned, but she didn't seem all too disappointed about it. In fact, she was probably more than happy about it—probably because she was actually hoping for it to happen. "Well, we should probably think of more baby names, then," she said, faking frustration, "Can't name both of them Fred. Wouldn't be right. It'd be downright cruel, I figure."

"No, it wouldn't, I figure," he replied, "But we can figure it out. We can cross that bridge when we get to it." He looked at the grave, and reread the words etched onto the headstone's surface with a small smile. "I wonder how they'll be, with your brains and my humor. Kid'll be the devil of Hogwarts when they get there. Oh, I can just imagine Professor McGonnagall just _instantly_ turning in her letter of resignation just by _seeing_ our kid's name on the page of newborn wizards."

Hermione hummed. "That, or secretly help them with whatever devious act they pursued, as so long as they passed their classes," Hermione mused before adding, "Which they _will_."

"They'd better, if they got your brains," George agreed with a laugh, "But I'm gonna make sure they remember to have some fun once in a while. Don't want them thinking that _studying_ is some sort of a good time."

Hermione made an indignant sound in response.

"It's a _great_ time!" she argued half-heartedly, too busy laughing.

George mockingly rolled his eyes, lowering a hand down to her bulging stomach. Sure, they were a week late already, but he still figured he had time to figure out the final name—he just knew that he couldn't wait to meet them for the first time; to hold his little child in his arms. The names would come in due time and, in the long run, weren't important—what was important was that they were showered with as much affection as could be, as much as his parents did, and (if there _were_ twins in there), that he help them form the bond that had shaped him so, because, although at times it might've hurt him—it'd been utterly necessary. To have a twin sibling is to have a partner for life; even if they left it—it meant to have someone you loved without question, no matter what the misstep they might commit, and to have someone whom you would know, without a doubt, would support you, even if they weren't even entirely aware that they were.

It was a bond George still felt he shared with Fred, and knew that he always would. It had been tried, and tested, and was still strong, still viable. It would never fade; just like the love he had for Hermione wouldn't, either.

He kissed her on her forehead. "I love you, 'Mione."

She hummed. "I love you, George." She placed a hand atop his where it still rested upon her stomach. "And I love you, Little Fred."

George brimmed with pride.

"I love you, too, Little Fred." He looked again at the headstone. "And I love you, too, Bigger Fred."

 _He solemnly swore he was up to no good_ , his headstone read for them, _and he never did lie about it. And, for that, he was loved. Always loved; forever._

* * *

 **Thank you to all reviewers, followers, favoriters, and everyone who just casually read this story on the DL - hopefully this story was as good a ride for you as it was for me! I'm actually kinda sorry that it's over, but only because this is one of the few responsibilities that I actually enjoy (though, responsibility is not becoming of me, as you can tell by my consistently late/nonexistent updates). Sorry it took so long to finish this - and I'm also sorry for the porn. I hope you enjoy it (my brother is reading this, we all know we enjoy the porn, but when family's reading you kinda gotta apologize, lol).**

 **I dedicate this to the great JK. I hope this is befitting of your characters, and I hope that, if you ever lay your holy vision upon my little fic, you deem it worthy of at least a small smirk of derision.**

 **Much love, and all of yours forever, Kay Gryffin.**

 **(Also, if you're ever on AO3, find me as KayGryffin [no spaces, kids!] Postin' Marvel works there, folks! And, if you get lucky enough, due to far less restriction and assholes with the ability to PM whenever I so much as write that character has possesses a nipple to threaten to have me removed, there may be the possibility of more porn of varying degrees of filth. Gay, Lesbian, Intergalactic, and everything in between [though I highly doubt the Intergalactic, but hey, I did try to write ClaraxDoctor porn] is valid. So go on over, search me up - I'm right there waiting for you.)**


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